


Flesh and Blood

by MemoryCrow



Series: Dark Am I, Yet Lovely [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Care of Magical Creatures, Dark Magic, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Friendship/Love, Magic, Multi, Mysticism, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 66,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8583862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin and Belle find Baelfire at last. I had no idea this work was going to become a trilogy... I think this is the final piece!





	1. Where the Wild Things Are

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is entirely inspired by and written for Beastlycheese.

Ruby _ran_. On all fours and covered in fur, with eyes that saw the tiniest scurry and a nose that was nearly her entire being; a sense of smell that was her _reason_ for being; she ran. Gizzard held tight to the ruff, the scruff of her neck, almost hidden there. His eyes were slitted against the _wind_ and _whoosh_ of Ruby's full-out run, over logs and under bramble, tearing through the brush. The woods went on for miles.

He trilled and purred. He made a little O of his mouth... when Ruby howled for joy, he would try a little howl along with her.

They had their differences, Gizzard and Ruby. The first time he'd heard her speak in a nasty way about Rumpelstiltskin, he'd turned into monster-Gizzard. He'd grown into the spookish, yet horribly _present_ threat of rank, ammonia scented fear and sickening, slavering jaw that filled up a lot of space, and he'd roared at her. _Bad_ girl. Very bad girl.

She'd screamed and run into Belle's bedroom, and wildly slammed the door. Things fell. Chloe had also shrieked and _puffed_ and disappeared, like a shot, under the couch. Feeling penitent, Gizzard had shrunk back to little and paced for a time, and made a small nest in the wires of the television and DVD player. Then, the doors of this world somewhat meaningless to him, he went through Belle's and padded to where Ruby sat, huddled on the floor, hugging her knees.

"I sorry."

"Well. Belle did warn me. You scared the shit out of me, you rotten, little monkey."

"Gizzard _Spret_."

"I know, I know."

After a pause, and with some careful deliberation, Ruby said, "I'm sorry I bad-mouthed Rumpelstiltskin."

" _Bad_ mouth." He eyeballed her mouth.

"Right."

"I love Wumpelss."

Sighing, Ruby said, "There seems to be a small fan club. I hope you can understand that, where I come from, he wasn't well loved. He did bad things to people."

" _Bad_ people."

"No. Just people. Maybe some were bad... I don't know. But what he did, he did for himself."

Making a scary face, scrunched and fangy, Gizzard said, " _Dark One_."

"Exactly."

"Ex-zac.." he tried out. " _tally_."

Climbing up to prop himself on her knee, Gizzard asked, "Wuby love Belle?"

Well, she wasn't sure. Probably. But she wasn't sure she even knew Belle. Still, she said, "Yes, Gizz. I love her."

It satisfied him. At least one parental unit had to be adored, Ruby supposed. He was protective over them. The pair, so weird. She pet his fluffed head with her fingertip, surprised and pleased to see him squinch up his big, black eyes and to hear him emit a loud purr. Cat-like, and yet, not. She felt the purr within herself, a swaying, humming sort of calm. They were bonding, she thought, maybe connecting in a way that was physical; internalized. It was then that the urge had overtaken her, too strong to be ignored. It filled her limbs with Gizzard's purr.

"Hey, Gizz... You wanna do something with me?"

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wolf-Ruby paused, sniffing the cold air. Gizzard sniffed, too, holding tight, warm in her ruff. Earth, and moss-furred tree, a dusty scent of feather. Beams of sunlight, pulsing into a think darkness of forest.

... And the well. The scent of cold water and stone, mineral, and an echoing of other worlds. _Magic_. It was spread out, not as thick as it had been when it was birthed from the well. The scent was dispersed, but it lingered, mingling with the breath of green and the secret scents of underground and fern spores; travelling invisibly. A light honey, a memory of rain and smoke.

Ruby threw her head back and howled; a long, chest-swelling, singing note. Gizzard did, too. He squeezed his eyes closed and raised his face to the trees. Somber, serious, he called, "OWWWWWOOOOooooooohhhhhhhh."

The forest went completely silent and still, unaccustomed to wolves and Sprets.

And then Ruby _ran_.

 


	2. Into the Unknown

Magic at hand, the finding of Baelfire had been quick and uncomplicated. For all that they entered into the unknown, the Dark One's magic still managed to beat out a path, marking it on maps and sending out sign-posts of crows and black dogs to guide them. Baelfire, after so long, was found. Then it became complicated.

At first, Rumpelstiltskin wasn't sure it was Baelfire. The man on the park bench was bigger than he, and his face was a stony mask. Behind him, on a branch of alder, a huge crow perched and bobbed its head. It said, "Ha-ha." Joke's on you, Rumpelstiltskin. Be careful what you wish for.

Belle held his hand. If not for awareness of her presence, he might never have moved. He could grow roots.

Baelfire, _gods_ , eyed their approach, looking wary. As they got closer, he said, "Can I...?" He stopped. His eyes locked on Rumpelstiltskin's face.

For all that this was the moment Rumpelstiltskin had waited for, for so long... this was what he'd worked to make happen for longer than Belle had been alive... he nevertheless felt a strong impulse to hide. To disappear in a _poof_ of lavender-violet smoke, leaving the people in the endless park to wonder, _what the hell_? But Baelfire would know. He would know precisely the hell.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stood. The crow flew off to the east. A black dog, unnoticed, followed. Baelfire said, "No."

He didn't elaborate. He turned and walked away, and Rumpelstiltskin didn't move. He had so many questions, and the answer to all of them was "no".

Belle moved.... She let go of his hand. In the presence of his son, which was also the presence of his past, Rumpelstiltskin felt enfeebled. he was lost without Belle's hand, and only watched her run after the tall man who stalked away. A ruffian. Baelfire was a ruffian.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Wait!" the girl called.

At first he didn't even pause. Shoulders hunched against the cold, head ducked under his hood, he dug his hands into his pockets and loped away. From _him_. Could it even _be_? He wasn't waiting to find out.

But then the girl - who the fuck _was_ she? - called, "Baelfire!"

It did something sickening to his spine. A cold, downward, slinking feeling that tightly clutched at his bowels, making them go suddenly liquid. That, in turn, made him clench his buttocks, a clammy sweat at his lower back in spite of the frigid air.

No one had called him that since... he couldn't even remember. It made a panic in his body, a feeling of waking up and realizing that his notions of real life, of safety, security, _reality_... were all crap. He stopped walking, inspired in part by his lower intestine. If he, in actuality, shit his pants at the sight of his father, someone would have to euthanize him. A mercy killing.

The girl caught up to him, flushed and puffing out crystalized breath. She was pretty in an earnest, wide-eyed way. A gaze of thoughtful blue. It seemed unlike the old man to have a plucky, errand girl in tow... Baelfire wondered if it was possible he had a half-sister.

"Baelfire."

"Stop calling me that. Who _are_ you?"

She put a gloved hand on his arm, and for a moment he felt quite calm. He was in a little bubble of calm... various sphincters might unclench, and it wouldn't be good. Then suspicion over-rode the calm. Was the bitch using _magic_? _Here_?

"My name is Belle." she said. "I came with your father... to help Rumpelstiltskin find you. Please don't walk away. He's been looking for so long."

Cry me a river. He looked back at... _fuck_.... Rumpelstiltskin. The old man hadn't moved, not so different from other times fear kept him standing still. It was like he only had two modes of being: scared rabbit or demon of blinding, blithering terror. _No_. He wasn't doing this. He was finding a bathroom, end of story. Let this be someone else's daytime drama.

"I'm sorry, lady." he said to the girl, Belle.

He shrugged her off and turned his back on both of them.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The solution, Baelfire thought, was beer. Familiar, comforting; a fuzzy-wuzzy quality, not unlike a beloved teddy-bear. He half-lounged, half-hid in a dark bar where anyone who knew him called him 'Neal'. That was who he was... he couldn't be that other person, _Baelfire_. What hyperbole... fire of hope, new beginnings. How had that worked out for his parents?

_Baelfire_ had only been a boy. A desperate boy. Neal drank, wishing to forget. Shame was a guilty, sticky, sniveling sort of feeling, and it surrounded the person of Baelfire, whom he did not wish to be. That poor kid. Shame at how much he loved his father, even when he was ravaged by a demon. Even when he killed, and it was like an after-thought of a tap dance. Grin, tip-o-the hat, tap-o-the cane; _slaughter_. Shame, also, that he couldn't face him, now. All the love he'd felt as a boy, the trust... it had turned on him. It orphaned him. His belief and his trust had been misplaced, and he just couldn't go there again.

He was ashamed... and wounded beyond repair that his father had let him go, into the unknown. He was Neal, now. Had been for a long time. It stuck. _Neal_ had a harder edge and a harder sound than the soft-hearted, soft-spoken Baelfire; the hushed endearment, _Bae_ , only a breath. A kiss.

There was no going back.

 


	3. Fury

_Pull yourself together_. It was Rumpelstiltskin's internal growl, a continuous rumbling, making his limbs ache with tension. Chemicals rushed into his blood and then stalled out, hurtful and acidic. He'd let fear get the better of himself. Again. Now he was livid.

He paced the hotel room, avoiding the window which revealed their dizzying height. Belle sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, rather wary.

_Fuck_. He didn't want to go making Belle cautious of him. In fact, she reminded him a great deal of Baelfire as a boy, treading carefully around the Dark One. It irritated him, that she would tip-toe around him.... It made him angry, and that he was angry made him all the more frustrated. Pent up. Infuriated. Was it the magic, he wondered? Was the power strengthening the Dark One, long dormant within him? Or was it just _him_? His feelings felt wild, and had no place to go.

He couldn't believe he'd let Belle do his running, his pleading for him. It was as if he'd reverted, on the instant of seeing Baelfire. He was frightened, unable to take action. Now he was still remembering, feeling the early days of _becoming_ the Dark One. The surge of power, and the black realization that he wanted revenge on _everyone_. The escalating, dreadful glee that - yes - he could have it. He could, indeed.

He couldn't stop the nastiness, broiling away at his core. His head was too noisy with hatred... of himself. Hatred of the world. Worlds. His tongue felt vile, bile-black, and he rounded on Belle.

"Have you something to say, _dearie_?" he all but spat.

He regretted it, before the words were even hissed from his lips. She only gazed at him, still cautious. Cautious, but she didn't seem especially afraid. What was it that drove him so, that made him want to see fear in her eyes? Why should he desire to see her tremble... for him?

"I'm not your enemy, Rumpel." Her voice was low, even.

He glared at her. Something had to give, or he was going to crumble before her, wringing his hands and quivering his lips. Womanish. He would come apart. He couldn't stand any particular part of himself in the moment... or that any of the parts might be witnessed.

He knew she was right. She was right in her statement and in her calm. But what he felt was so abhorrent. He fought himself. With a strangled sound, he turned from her. All that he felt had to be vented somewhere else... on anything that wasn't Belle. He was having visions of his hands encircling her throat, her eyes, her mouth pleading. Bruises blooming. It scared him; terrified him, in fact.

A desk chair and a wall of the hotel room became his targets.... he could consider the consequences, later. All that mattered was that the horrific, evil flow; the incoming tide that was so inevitable, that became roaring, crashing waves was directed away from Belle. The chair was smashed to smithereens; nothing but wood splinters and gutted puffs of stuffing, raining through the air. Then he hit the wall. It hurt, and that was good. He hit repeatedly with a bare-knuckled fist, pounding a hole into the wall and tearing up his hand, bloodying it. He shouted and raged through all of it, never hearing his voice over the storm inside of himself; the hateful, loud thundering of blood ringing in his ears. The rush.

When it passed, finally released from his body, he saw that Belle had never moved. She stared at her lap. The room was a mess; his hand throbbed in pain. He'd accomplished nothing, but at least he felt... emptied. Drained of poison, numb to trauma. He could see Belle more clearly. The disgust, pain and sorrow that had so taken hold of him was fading... leaving him with a hollow feeling of _nothingness_. Almost falling, he knelt at Belle's feet, head in her lap, and wept quietly. More emptying. He was grateful beyond the telling to feel her hands on him, petting his hair.


	4. Return

The city was... so much. Though Rumpelstiltskin was surrounded by his own little aura of magic, the dagger spell he made with Gizzard, the city was not attuned to such things. It moved and bustled and hurtled around him; its buildings blocked out the sky, very nearly the _air_ , and it was spilling over with people. All walks of life. The constant wash of rushing noise was shocking.

In its way, it was exciting. The scents were overwhelming... hot food prepared on street corners, fried dough and charred meats, exotic spices or the straight-forward, sizzling and dripping-on-a-grill scent of hot-dogs, burgers. The scent of food might give way to an unexpected, acrid dank of urine and vomit, a wet-rot, seemingly diseased scent of refuse; only to become, around the next corner, a high sparkle of white wine, a lure and deep note of stout, beer, spilling out of doors to mingle with rough asphalt and car exhaust. An oddly narcotic whiff of evaporated gasoline.

No one knew him. It was both terrifying and exhilarating... walking through throngs of people, all of them blind to his presence. But even in such anonymity; the minds of the population deeply distracted, all in their own worlds and racing along hamster-wheel like tracks; they still made a space around him. A black specter, he moved within his own space, people moving around him, sightless and hurrying, lost to the rushing of internal and external noise.

He went without Belle. You can run, he thought. But Baelfire certainly could not hide. Even in this place of buildings, stacked so tightly together; people... glued to phones and flowing like a broad path of lemmings to an underground rail; rolling like loosed marbles into the streets; Rumpelstiltskin was still led by crows. Stop signs to lamp-posts, lamp-posts to window ledge. They landed on the sidewalk and strutted a few cocky paces before fluttering away from the endless sea of people.

Other signs appeared as well. A bright, red leaf, far from the park or any sign of trees... it hopped and skipped along the walkway, subject to its own private wind. At a crosswalk, someone yelled, "Over here!" Rumpelstiltskin looked; the speaker was not calling to him, and yet a crow perched on top of the truck he manned. In these ways Rumpelstiltskin followed magic and came to find Baelfire, again.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At his door, bleary and almost derelict with stubble, Baelfire said, "Jesus H."

He rubbed the lower part of his face with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin was startled and surprised to see his _own_ hand.... broad palm, long fingers, a bit spatulated at the fingertips. His bones, his blood had informed the making of this person, and - here and there - it showed.

But, then again, Baelfire was a bit like Leroy. Nicotine stained his fingertips, his nails were dull and bitten. He wore layers of clothes, all rumpled and nondescript, as well as a knit cap and a hoodie. Indoors. He stood in a fog of bad breath and unwashed skin, and said, "Whatever you want, I can't help you, man."

Hung over, Rumpelstiltskin thought. Part of the fragrant fug.

"I just want to talk to you, Bae."

"See? I can't help you."

Rumpelstiltskin inserted his foot, then bodily blocked the door before it could close.

"Ain't no reunion happening here, old man."

Oh, yes. Rather like Leroy. It was so strange to think Baelfire had grown into this lumbering, sleepy, angry person. He exuded evidence of all manner of mild additions and self-medicating. His eyes were narrowed and guarded... and dark, Like Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. No sign of Milah, there, with her eyes of startling, cat-green. Baelfire didn't fully resemble either himself or Milah, but nearly every trait Rumpelstiltskin recognized was one of his own. He felt a proprietary sort of triumph in it... his flag was already planted.

"Let me in, Bae. Do you want to physically _fight_ me, in this sad little... _squalor_?" He looked about, appalled. Baelfire lived in a box, full of other boxes, all stacked and layered upon one another. Endless doors marked the long hallways, no windows to the outside. People had left bags of garbage outside their doors. The walls looked grimy, the floors threadbare and uneven.

"Oh... fuck it, then." Baelfire said.

He turned and retreated into his small dwelling, where - at least - there was a window or two. Rumpelstiltskin followed, closing the door behind him.

"Coffee?" Baelfire said. Or sneered. An ironic sort of cordial... mocking. He poured himself a cup in a yellow mug he plucked from a full sink. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, no, to Baelfire's mildly hostile, brow-raised look.

Turning back to what passed for his kitchen counter, he asked, "So, who's the chippie?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The girl. Your gal Friday. Do I have a baby sister, now?"

Oh, the horror. " _No_. Belle is my... " How did he say it? Girlfriend sounded simple-minded, ridiculous. She was so much more. "I love her." he said.

Baelfire gave a leering look of disbelief. He settled himself on a couch while Rumpelstiltskin remained standing. Everything was such a mess... the couch was covered in throws and newspapers... there might be a chair somewhere beneath a nearby pile of clothes and mail. The hovel, in Rumpelstiltskin's most poor years, had never been such a disaster. His dwellings had never been so neglected, uncared for.

"You gotta be kidding me. That little cupcake? Hell, she looks younger than me, Pop."

At that, Rumpelstiltskin rolled his eyes. Body strong with magic, he settled for squatting, balanced on the balls of his feet. His forearms rested on his thighs, hands dangling loosely between.

He asked, "And how old would you estimate yourself to be, Bae? Or me?"

Baelfire took a swig of black coffee, then said, "... I guess it gets irrelevant after enough time."

"Indeed."

There were so many things to say, and so many questions. Rumpelstiltskin could only stare... the man he looked at was very ordinary, and yet every little detail arrested him. He wanted to pick Baelfire apart, visually; cataloging. He landed on the most obvious question at hand.

"And how is it, Bae, that you're so long lived? And youthful?"

_Snort_. "Look who's asking."

"Aye. But you know why I still live."

Baelfire's look was mild, yet very unpleasant. "Yeah. I do. Well, Pop, let's just say that the Reul Ghorm's solution to my childhood problems didn't exactly follow a straight path. I've been here and there. One of the places had magic that keeps you young."

"Ah." He would pursue it more, later. He wanted details. For now, it was enough that Baelfire was talking, and -besides - Rumpelstiltskin's heart had made a nasty squeeze at the mention of _Reul Ghorm_. It stole his breath for a moment, and he fought a flare of vengeful anger. It felt righteous.

He'd discussed the matter of faerie with Gizzard, who claimed to be one of the fae. Gizzard's magic, his presence was such a different thing from Reul Ghorm... it was so natural, slipping from him, as did Belle's. It was of the earth, and old deities long passed on into earth, the ashes of stars.

It was Gizzard who, upon sighting the bloody _Mother Superior_ , snarled and whispered, " _Fata_."

He'd been on Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, and he lifted his hand, giving Gizzard a finger to perch upon. He looked at the little, wizened and furry face. "Fata?"

" _Fates_." Gizzard didn't seem any more taken with Reul Ghorm than was he, but, nevertheless, Rumpelstiltskin had almost roared. It was a Dark Castle moment, and had he not been out on the streets of Storybrooke, he would have danced a happy, little jig, forefinger raised in triumph.

Of _course_. Mother Superior and her cloistered, little hens, all married to _God_. So funny. They were _Fates_ , whatever bloodline of fae that followed. When they had their magic fully restored, they would - in ways - be more powerful than Gizzard and his ilk. They _meddled_ ; not in small ways, but in the big picture. They claimed that some paths could not be changed, while they took it upon themselves to make decisions about others. As Reul Ghorm had done with Baelfire.

How they must hate him in return, for he'd usurped their role. He'd been the decision maker for Storybrooke... and, amusingly, that came about due to the actions of Reul Ghorm. He was a spinner; had been so long before the Dark One's curse. He knew the bloody, fickle and often biased ways of the _Fates._

To spin, to draw out the thread of that thought became a little disturbing. What about the Seer? Was it fated that he hear her childhood words and react in fear? Was it fated that he find her again, a grown woman, mad with _sight_ , and tear her gift from her body?

They were woven into his life, the Fates. Fucking Reul Ghorm, taking his son. Did her threads show her where that magic bean would lead? Had he thwarted fate with the Curse, or had he aided the path of the Fates?

"... You still really hate Reul Ghorm, huh?" Baelfire noted, looking bemused.

Rumpelstiltskin hadn't been able to suppress his ire, his snarl. "Aye. The bitch. Those _bitches_."

"Well, might as well let it go for now, Pop. You made your own choices, back then. Things could have been different."

"I'm sorry, Bae. I truly am... All I've done since letting you go is try to find you."

"I stopped wanting to be found a long time ago. I don't need you. Okay? I don't need any of your crap. I sure as hell don't need magic. Can we just... _not_ do this?"

Standing, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I _have_ to do this. I have to know you, and try and earn your forgiveness. I'm your father, Baelfire. I can't help it."

Baelfire stood as well. In spite of the fact that he wore a tired, flannel robe over jeans, layers of pullovers and socks that appeared to be covered in Marvin the Martian cartoons, he was a little threatening. He stood close to Rumpelstiltskin, taller by a head.

"That word," he said. " _'Father'._ All it means to me is pain. Disappointment. Shame. I know you feel bad, and I know you have regrets. You want forgiveness? Fine. You're forgiven." He waved his hands over Rumpelstiltskin, as if working a spell."Hocus Pocus. Bibbity bobbity boo. _All better_. But it doesn't mean I can forget. I _can't_. Believe me when I tell you; I've tried.

"And you know what, Pop? Even if I could forget, and you and me and your chippie could all go out for a family meal and bask in gooey, amnesiac love, you'd _still_ be the fucking Dark One. Does she know that, this babygirl you _love_? Does she know about the thing you'll always love more than her? More than me, that's for damn sure. You fucking proved that.... I'd have to be a back-birth, brainless, blithering idiot not to have learned that lesson."

It was nothing Rumpelstiltskin hadn't expected, but it was so much harder than he'd anticipated. He had no defenses. No defenses against Baelfire's anger and sadness, all directed to him, the source. Nothing with which to guard or defend himself. He was exposed, a shell-less snail, salted. Like an icy blade, it stole his breath, and he fought not to stagger back. Not to die on the spot, killed by words. By shame.

He waited for his breath to even out, then he said, almost a whisper, "I'll keep coming back, Bae. I have to make this right."

"You can't."

Looking around, Rumpelstiltskin was struck with what should have been obvious from the start. How could he be so blind? He pulled out his wallet, extracted a bulk of cash and held it out to Baelfire.

"Here. Take it."

Baelfire's eyes had gone a bit hungry, and also wide with disbelief. Petulant, pissed, he knocked Rumpelstiltskin's hand aside. The glancing touch of his fingertips sent such a shock of recognition through Rumpelstiltskin, he nearly gasped.

"I don't want your fucking money." Baelfire said, gruff. But, clearly, he did.

Rumpelstiltskin laid the money on top of the mound of clothes, covering - he hoped - a chair.

"Just take it." he said. "You need it. I have it to spare."

It seemed to defeat Baelfire. _Ah-ha_. Rumpelstiltskin wondered that he could overlook such a fundamental, basic need, staring him in the face. The little box that was Baelfire's apartment was freezing. Ice formed from moisture that dripped _inside_ his windows. It was an _in_ , and he jumped on it.

Baelfire's stance became more docile, arms hanging at his sides. He wouldn't meet Rumpelstiltskin's eyes. Feeling a small measure of strength, a wee bit of ground to stand upon, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I'll be back, tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath."

Smiling, Rumpelstiltskin said, "You really should do something about that breath, Bae."

　

 


	5. Black, White and Red

It was hard. Just being outside of Storybrooke, and far, far-flung from home... that, alone, was harder than Belle had expected. The up and down surging of emotion was wearing on the body. Rumpelstiltskin's elation over magic, his growing certainty of himself as he'd worked with Gizzard. And then... the sorrow, frustration and violence within him... It wasn't new to her. The reality of his son, however, was very new.

She felt wrong, somehow. While her place beside Rumpelstiltskin felt certain, the arrival of Baelfire and all that it meant to Rumpelstiltskin upset a balance she'd begun to take for granted. She was not certain of her place beside father and son, and it frightened her. It also frightened her to think that Baelfire might simply refuse to accept Rumpelstiltskin. The story might be over, just like that, after all of Rumpelstiltskin's long years... so focused on one goal. What sort of man would she be left with in that event?

Perhaps she shouldn't have come, she'd said to Rumpelstiltskin, soothing him after his rage. She wondered if his quest wasn't too private a matter for her presence.... maybe she was making things worse, simply by being a witness. But he'd said, quite plainly, calmly; he'd die without her.

That was frightening, too.

Baelfire alienated her. Utterly. His appearance, his gruffness. He was a well grown man, and yet seethed with an adolescent sort of anger and contempt... to Belle, he seemed so different from Rumpelstiltskin.

She was an odd woman, she knew. If only Ruby were here; she would understand Baelfire. She could navigate his brand of masculinity and expression, and communicate with him. Easily. But for Belle he was another species. What _she_ understood was Rumpelstiltskin... she understood which emotions masked other emotions, and she understood the struggle of a man with a deep appreciation of civility, who was also part of something primal. Animal. She understood, more and more, magic. Its effect on him.

The city was also beyond her understanding. It blocked out earth and sky, muddling her senses. That the surly piece of thuggery on the park bench was Rumpelstiltskin's son gave her pause. Like the city, he seemed unknowable. What on could she - with her books and birds and faeries - have to do with him?

With these thoughts, Belle fretted. She tidied the hotel room as best she could.... the wall was hopeless. Maybe Rumpelstiltskin could use magic on it. There were rusty smears on the wall where he'd bloodied it. Belle stood before the wall and traced a fingertip over the dried smudges... It was a strange thought; Rumpelstiltskin's blood. He was overly familiar with hers, but she'd never seen him bleed before the tantrum.

Did the Dark One linger in the cells, dead now, exposed to the outside world? The strange, stifled air of the city.

Rumpelstiltskin's blood moved in Baelfire as well, if not the blood of the Dark One. It made her feel weirdly jealous, and that struck her as absurd. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, she'd somehow expected Baelfire to be a child. Small. A boy who needed his father, with whom she could try and play a supportive role, if not truly a mothering role.

Her feelings were decidedly sibling-like, and - perhaps as an only child - she balked. Could she share Rumpelstiltskin with this person? How could she? He was _hers_. This man, this Baelfire who woke such hurt and self loathing in Rumpelstiltskin... he was too big. Too tall, and bulky with clothes he appeared to have slept in. Too big and sprawling a package to fit neatly into her life.

Belle sat, again, on the edge of the hotel bed, marshmallow-like in its massing of bedclothes and pillows, all white. Maybe because the city was dirty, messy, it seemed to value little pockets of pure, pristine white. Flake white, said the tube of paint. To be licked off of the brush.

Belle, so used to Rumpelstiltskin's warm colors - they were her own - felt cold in the hotel room. The bedclothes were layers of snow. The room was a monochrome igloo.... even a painting on the wall was only a series of off-white shades, suggesting no particular form. The frame was white pewter.

Only the jagged hole Rumpelstiltskin had put in the wall shook up the pale world of the hermetically sealed room. The hole was cavernous black, his blood was fading red. The small patch of destruction looked like an opening to faerie, stumbled upon in snow.

 


	6. Black Dog

Had Rumpelstiltskin not been so focused on Baelfire, so distracted by his thoughts and feelings, he might have noticed that his movements about the city were followed. Tracked. In fact, even his magic tried to alert him; a black dog, a labrador mutt, appeared in an unlikely way on a sidewalk dedicated to humans. In the ever-moving throng and minus owner or collar, it padded along, toenails clicking on cement. It wandered up to a figure lurking in the shadow of a stairwell.

Its purpose was to expose the figure, but Rumpelstiltskin walked on by, seeing only inward. The dog felt its head given a scratch, and looked up. It saw a threat, and an aspect of itself. Oh, well. It moved on, morphing into a quality of magic that no one could see.

It wasn't surprising to the watcher in the shadows.

 


	7. Breakfast In America

Well, it had come to pass; Baelfire was having to eat his words. Sort of. He would also eat breakfast, a grand repast of the like he hadn't known in some time. He sat in a diner booth, across from his father and the wide-eyed nymphet. Lucky man, sly fox... she could _easily_ be his daughter.

The diner was brightly lit, and - like everywhere - it was busy. Baelfire took in a blur of fire-engine red and scuffed chrome; big, laminated menus that smelled of syrup, scurrying, sugar-dusted waitresses in little, yellow dresses with white collars, and white sneakers worn with ankle socks. Cute, even on the ample. Ever hungry, he found himself attracted to bountiful looking women... a mother-load of bosom, and arms that could bear the weight of a food-laden cornucopia. It was a pleasant little fantasy, and he nursed it for a bit, as he nursed a cup of coffee and felt his belly rumble. It seemed to want to suction itself to his spine.

A brand new wad of cash was tucked, in a comfortable way, into his pocket. It's not that he could be bought, but he thought he could spend some time considering being bought. If the old man wanted to throw money at him... well, hell. Was it not owed? Were there not some absentee care and feeding years to atone for? Where was Rumpelstiltskin, with his magic, Monopoly money and guilty generosity when Baelfire was learning the ways of this world? Without magic and without the things this world wanted from him in order to part with its money... no education, no real _record_ to speak of. An invented life and identity. It meant his job title was 'Environmental Services', and that translated to 'Janitor'. His working hours were filled with body fluids, overflowing toilets, a host of chemicals whose containers were labeled with bright, hazard warnings, and all of the cold, mind-numbing fears and anxieties, the enforced apathy that gathered beneath the florescent lighting of a County hospital floor.

In his off hours, he occasionally tried to supplement the pitiful income this afforded him.

So, sure. A couple a hundred here and there, a hearty breakfast... Who was he to say 'no' to the old man?

It was awkward, though. Especially with this little, Belle person and her nakedly assessing _look_. How could the old man, so freaking secretive and private, deal with the blue probe of her gaze? In a way that differed greatly from clingy, needy women he'd known, her feelings seemed too close to the surface. She exuded a disturbing honesty and frankness, even while silent.

His stomach made a loud, animal-like grumble which he felt as a series of hollow, empty burps in his abdomen, sequentially. His father smiled. _Yeesh_. The girl said, "Hungry?"

"Nah." He was such an asshole. He gave her the look that implied her retardedness, and she held his gaze. She was a bit unnerving.

Breakfast arrived... in the loving arms of a woman who could have balanced trays on her breasts. Maybe one on the shelf-like protrusion of her posterior. It was exactly as he'd dreamed... of late, he'd had a perverse desire for an orgy of Venus of Willendorfs, but with more in the way of facial features. They would all feed him, and - in gratitude - he would grant sexual favors to one and all.

He had three plates. One was like a trough, and contained mounds of buttery, cheesy, scrambled eggs, potatoes fried with onion, several thick slabs of charred bacon, and a tall, butter-browned biscuit, nearly the size of his fist. A second, smaller plate held a stack of pecan pancakes, beside which stool a little, pregnant and warm pot of maple syrup. Like a little Venus. The smallest plate, a saucer, held an extra order of link sausages. Everything smelled of butter in hot skillets, syrup and bacon... smoked apple-wood, warm kitchen and the assurance of plenty. The wakeful and ever present scent of coffee, dark and alluring. He felt gluttonous and ostentatious next to his tablemates, with their smaller plates and more modest fare. He didn't care. Let the Willendorf orgy begin... he would need his strength to start granting feminine wishes and making babies.

He dove in. He lost sight of his tablemates and even of the sense of awkwardness. His own resistance to his father took a back seat, relaxing and calmly meditating while he filled his belly. At the end, as he dragged a sausage link through a pool of buttery syrup and forced it down, belly full but somehow _wanting_ , he found that his father and Belle were staring at him. Cute. He should take a picture... Even Rumpelstiltskin looked a little round-eyed.

The waitress appeared, and said, "Can I get you anything else, hon?" She was a good Venus, she didn't begrudge him food. He loved her. His father's amazed and curious eyes were glued to him, waiting to see if he could possibly order more. He considered it... maybe something in a to-go box, pie or something. He should, he thought, just to see the old man's face. The nymphet was his mirror.

But, smiling at the waitress and holding up his white, ceramic cup, he said, "Nah, sweetheart. Just a little more coffee."

Smiling back, she said, "Looks like you're bulking up for winter, hon." She pinched his arm lightly, and said, "You need a little meat on your bones."

Oh, yes. Once upon a time, he was drawn to the proverbial 'hot chick', as defined by the city in which he'd landed. Hunger and always being cold had altered his basic desires, somewhat. The waitress might have been making pillow talk. The pinch was foreplay.

She refilled Belle and Rumpelstiltskin's cups as well, then - in a knowing way - left the bill with Rumpelstiltskin. Baelfire raised his cup to the old man by way of saying 'thanks'. He _was_ grateful, but he couldn't quite bring himself to actually say the words.

Face still amazed, Rumpelstiltskin broke into a wide, genuine smile. "Are you sure you got enough, son?"

Both Baelfire and Belle flinched at the word, _son_ , and Belle did a good job of covering. Still, Baelfire noticed.

"It's never enough." he said. "But, yeah. I'm about to explode."

"I imagine." Belle said.

She fidgeted. Baelfire felt that there was some unnamed, little animosity between them, and wondered over it. He wondered that she could be so protective over Rumpelstiltskin... so he just came out with it.

"You know he's the Dark One?" he asked, staring her down with mild, narrowed eyes.

She flinched again, looking around.

"Don't worry. No one here has any clue what that means... I could be talking about Darth Vader. Or Dick Cheney."

The references seemed a little lost on her, though his father looked down with a small smirk. Belle said, "Yes. I know."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Baelfire... it's... " she kept her voice careful. "I'm sorry, but that's not your business."

"It's Neal. Okay? I've been Neal for longer than I can remember... It's the only name I've gone by as an adult. I don't want you two calling me Baelfire."

Rumpelstiltskin only shook his head, looking away. He wouldn't comply, of course. He'd already expressed how unable he was to adapt to the invented name. His son was Baelfire.

Belle said, "Alright. Sorry, Neal."

"And it _is_ my business. You two come hunting me with magic... I don't see how you can overlook the occasional homicide... or handy lie of omission."

"As I understand it," Belle said, "He took on the Curse to save you from going to the Ogre wars."

Baelfire couldn't believe it. He actually _felt_ his insides rear up, defensive and angry. He was ready to crowd the table and insist that he would have gone to war, he would have _died_ , if that was his fate. He wasn't like Rumpelstiltskin. But... well, it was absurd. Wasn't it? They'd haul him off to Bellevue, as he ranted about Ogres. Why not throw in a few Orcs, while he was at it? A screaming Ring Wraith or two. He was on a quest to deliver a ring of power to the hell-fires of Trump Towers.

Standing, heading to the register, Rumpelstiltskin rapped his knuckles on the table. Surprisingly big knuckles. He said, "Let's not have bickering between the two of you. It's enough that Bae and I have such history." He raised his brows pointedly at each of them before walking away; the man in black. They were chastised children. Belle looked penitent, blushing, but Baelfire rolled his eyes.

"I just don't get it, that's all." he said to Belle.

Leaning forward, her gaze briefly on the carnage of the breakfast table, she said, "He's more than one thing, Bae... Neal. He's not _just_ the Dark One."

"Oh, I get _that_. That was always the bitch of it, growing up. He was still my papa. It didn't stop the lies, though. The back-handed deals. The killing."

Shaking her head, evidently done with him for the moment, Belle stood as well. Baelfire felt as if he could _see_ the cord that tethered her to his father... she would follow its path to his side. He felt an unexpected, little stab of jealousy. Jealousy that she had his father, rather than the other way around. Where on earth had his father _found_ this girl; this serious faced nymphet? How had he engendered such loyalty?

He stood as well, taller than both of them. It felt as if he was herding them to the door, with his height and bulky layer of clothes. He didn't have especially warm things, and so his theory was; wear everything. The money in his pocket might change that.

They shuffled out of the swinging, glass door and onto the sidewalk, all three braced for the cold, bright world. Such natty dressers, these two, Baelfire thought. With their well-cut coats and fine gloves, their wrappings of scarves and Belle's kicky, little beret. His own look was more Rocky Balboa. He tugged his black fedora low to his ears.

As they approached a taxi, a blur of glossy black, shockingly familiar, was suddenly in their midst, upsetting the little grouping. Belle stumbled and caught herself on the taxi; Rumpelstiltskin moved towards her, but was caught up short by the menace of black. The _other_ man in black.

In slow motion, his brain changing time as he sorted out what he saw, Baelfire registered the pirate. He hadn't seen him in awhile... it was reunion week all around, apparently. His brain ticked, reliving the story Hook told about his mother... about Hook's hand. More casualties of the Dark One. He saw the gleam of the hook as it flashed, showy and dagger-style, through the air. It's target was Rumpelstiltskin's chest.

To his credit, the old man, who had been reaching for Belle, now shoved her out of the way. He even made as if to block Baelfire. Baelfire didn't think. The scene played out in its weirdly slow, dance-like manner, and he reacted. His body reacted. He stepped into the fray, and as the black, leather clad arm arced down, full of strength and anger, he caught it. It was bone jarring. He'd stepped between attacker and intended victim, shielding his father. He would never live it down.

Time went back to normal, and with that change came the return of the noise of the city. After the slowness he'd felt, the bubble he'd stepped into, the sudden rush of _everything_ was disconcerting. Normal speed and sound was too fast, too loud.

Hook's face, flushed, enraged and a snarl of white teeth parting dark scruff, came into focus. He struggled against Baelfire, but Baelfire was bigger. And a scrapper. They'd both had to fight for everything... all the time.

" _Fucking hell_!" Hook growled, dismayed by his failure.

Baelfire subdued him, holding him with both arms pinned behind. A flashback to breakfast, his father and Belle still looked amazed.

"Jesus H." Baelfire said, breathing hard. "What the _hell_ , Kill?"

　

 


	8. Turning Point

"You saved my life, Bae." Rumpelstiltskin said.

It was debatable, just how much the Dark One's life could have been endangered. Still, Baelfire was relieved to have stopped the attack, yet embarrassed in a way that wasn't really acceptable to express. He wondered a bit over the rightness of thwarting Killian.

Rubbing his face, he muttered, "Let's not make a fuss."

Startling him, Belle hugged her arms around his torso. Oh, they were going to make a fuss. "There, there." he said, uncomfortably, patting her back.

Tied to a chair in Baelfire's grim apartment, Hook said, "Well. Isn't this touching?"

Rumpelstiltskin's hand rose, a subtle turning at the wrist, and Baelfire could only see snails. As one, he and Belle yelped, " _No_!"

"No?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, his tone one of disbelief. "You know who this man _is_ , Bae? You know what he _did_?"

Tired, Baelfire said, "Yeah, Pop. And I know what you did, too. Let it go, already." To Hook, he raised his brows and said, "You, too."

"Are you kidding, mate? How am I supposed to do that? I have a reminder of that bloody Croc every time I go to button a shirt or take a piss."

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, his delight undisguised, and Baelfire groaned. One meal. One freaking meal, and _look_. He glanced at Belle, who was looking at Killian like he'd fallen out of the sky. Clearly there were stories the old man hadn't shared.

"How could you stop me, Bae? You know what he is."

"I can't sit back and let you _kill_ my father."

" _Try_." Rumpelstiltskin said, his smile both happy and nasty. When had a gold tooth come into play? " _Try_ to kill me. And good bloody luck with that, pirate."

"Pirate?" Belle said. "Killing? Has everyone here gone insane?"

Baelfire's look was sympathetic, but he said, "Get used to it. I bet you'll see a lot of this sort of crap as the Dark One's main squeeze."

Killian, blank faced and flat-toned, said, "What."

No one clarified for him, so he stared at Belle in frank curiosity. She edged closer to Rumpelstiltskin, who put his arm around her.

"I'll ask you, once, not to stare at Belle."

Hook flashed a predatory, white-toothed smile. "Afraid she'll prefer me, Croc? Again?"

Face darkening, Rumpelstiltskin's hand rose once more, and Baelfire decided he'd had enough. Pointing at his father, he said, "You.... Put. The hand. _Down_. There will be no magic in this house."

" _House_?" Rumpelstiltskin looked about, aghast. Ignoring him, Baelfire fixed Killian with his blackest look and asked, "Am I going to have to gag you, as well?"

"I dunno, mate. The man-handling and bondage has been intriguing. Let's just see how it goes."

" _Ugh_. Gag him." Rumpelstiltskin said, and muttered something about pirates, filth, depravity and so forth. Baelfire gave a small smile.

They regarded one another in silence, until Baelfire took a seat and said, "Well. In other news, I'm going to have to go to work. Now I have to decide if I care whether or not you all kill each other in my absence." With a mockingly fond expression, he added, "It's been _so_ long since I've considered murder as an aspect of daily living... the benefits, the downfalls. The unexpected perks. I'm so pleased you've all arrived to bring back such sweet nostalgia."

Looking at Rumpelstiltskin, Belle murmured, "I see he got your sarcasm." Rumpelstiltskin gave a small smile to his lap.

Hook let his head fall back, and stared at the ceiling in exasperation.

" _Work_ , Bae?" Rumpelstiltskin said, in a tone that questioned the validity of Baelfire's work. "How difficult would it be to let that go? Come with me and Belle, back to Storybrooke. Maybe home, if you wish it."

"Again, so touching." Hook observed to the ceiling. "I may need a hanky."

"I'm happy to rip off your head and shove one down your throat, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin pulled his handkerchief from his pocket.

Righting himself, Hook flashed a look of black menace and said, "Oh, _do_ it, Crocodile. Try. I'm begging you."

Baelfire said, "Wait."

He was taken aback by his own ability to command the room. He hadn't formerly noticed it as one of his innate qualities, but activity ceased and all looked to him. Even his father, who had not been one to pause and consider, post Curse.

"Storybrooke?" he asked. He felt like he might be going a little bit crazy. Maybe he should just do it, in a big way that would leave no room for doubt... go running outside, arms waving and totally ape-shit... shouting his tales of Ogres and Orcs. Pirates and Evil Wizards. Goblins, and the women who love them. _Magic beans_. There were certain to be good drugs in such a venture.

All eyes were still on him, his father and Belle still in sync. Matched owls, in silent query.

"Do you know an Emma Swan?" he asked

　

 


	9. Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many Spretly things inspired by Beastlycheese.

The relief Belle felt, winding along dark roads that were surrounded by trees, was physical. So, not a city girl, she surmised. An icy rain poured down, but- in a childlike way - she felt safe and secure with Rumpelstiltskin at the wheel. Even the two in the back seat seemed more subdued, less of a source of anxiety in the shadowed cave of the car's interior, water loud, all around.

The rain pelted the changing leaves of maples, tulip trees and oaks to the black, wet asphalt. The tops of branches were bare, imploring into the storm, and blankets of leaves gathered along the banks of the road; swirled in gathering pools.

Belle sighed, muscles loosening, far from the endless sea of concrete and steel that had dulled her mind and made her skin feel unpleasantly touched. The buzz in her head had been constant, and left her wishing she could curl up in bed, deep in dreams, instead of dealing with the ways in which her life would change. Again.

Rumpelstiltskin seemed far away. His focus was the road, and his gaze was long. But Belle could feel the energy that moved around him... it pulsed and shifted, moving backwards and forwards in time. She could feel, too, a sort of thread in the making; a scant, little stream, flowing between Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire.

Killian Jones... He was another thing, altogether. What _was_ he? Belle was avoiding looking at him. She didn't really know _how_ to look at him, for his return look moved constantly between curiosity, flirtation or outright mockery of her. The trend persisted, even under threat of gory death. It was strange, given the sketchy history she had of his introduction into Rumpelstiltskin's life, to understand that he and Baelfire had a connection. Perhaps a friendship, developed somewhere in the many, missing years.

For a short while, Killian had dozed, his head on Baelfire's shoulder. Rumpelstiltskin had seen it in the rear-view mirror, limiting his reaction to a small, shake of his head. A silent disapproval. He had not wanted Killian in his car, much less in Storybrooke; but he bent to Baelfire's wishes.

Belle wasn't used to that. She wasn't used to Rumpelstiltskin bending for anyone but her.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ruby's car was in the drive when they pulled up to Rumpelstiltskin's house. Belle was as happy to be home as ever she'd been to sight the Dark Castle, to feel the knowledge of the man, the magic that waited for her inside. Something in the Storybrooke homecoming was sure to feel normal, comforting. She'd come to think of the somewhat rustic, elaborate cottage as her home; she missed her wine colored bedroom and the fields and woods surrounding the house, now bone colored and bare, bending to the storm.

Upon crossing the threshold, however, she was met with chaos. Sprets, or something like Sprets... were _everywhere_. Ruby stood in the living room, holding Chloe and looking sheepish. Little implings, all more or less a take on Gizzard, hopped and frolicked about. They scaled the drapes and hung there, swinging. They nestled in bookshelves and gathered around outlets, apparently meditating there. Or channeling electricity.

Looking rather frozen in place, Ruby said, " _Hi_." She sang it, a bit.

Rumpelstiltskin came in after Belle, shaking out an umbrella before giving up and leaving it on the porch. He was half shrugged out of his coat before his eyes took it all in. He stopped, coat dragging the floor, and said, "What on earth have you done to my house, Miss Lucas?"

Ruby's mouth dropped open, her eyes wide and wary. Before she could reply, the foyer became crowded with big men. Echoing stomps on the porch were followed by the rumpled, blending-to-twilight apparition of Baelfire and the crow-specter of Killian. If anything, Ruby's eyes became a little wider, her stance a little more rigid.

"Wow. What the hell, Pop?" Baelfire observed, looking around.

"Indeed." Rumpelstiltskin agreed.

An impling scurry-hop-dodged around the group and made a rapid climb up Killian's body. "...What...?" he asked, looking down, then around. He yelped as it appeared at his shoulder.

"House guests?" he asked, a somewhat comical edge of panic in his voice. The impling slid down his arm to dangle happily from his hook.

"Miss Lucas?" Rumpelstiltskin repeated.

"Well, it's Gizzard." she rolled her eyes. "He said the way is open to faerie, now... so these are some of his friends. His people."

" _Some_?"

"I don't know... maybe _all_ of his people. Did you really think I could _control_ him?"

Rumpelstiltskin sighed, and Baelfire started to chuckle, watching Killian. The Sprets all seemed unusually attracted to him. They were climbing him, willy-nilly, like families of squirrels in a tree. They liked his gaudy wealth of jewelry and his shiny hook. They liked the gleam and scent of his leather, and the thick scruff at his face and neck. Some reached into the V of his shirt and plucked at dark, chest hairs.

"Ow. Bloody hell. I'm so pleased you think this is funny, mate."

Belle couldn't help but smile at Spret-bedeviled Killian. Baelfire said, "They saw all that body hair and decided you're the mother ship."

Belle turned away and went to Ruby. It felt awkward, but she gave her a hug in greeting. Chloe was transferred in the process.

"Where _is_ Gizzard?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. Some of the implings had become interested in him, but demurred at his frowning scowl, peering down his nose.

"I.." Ruby said, and was interrupted by Gizzard popping out of Belle's hair. Belle jumped... it was as though he'd simply materialized there.

"Wumpelss!"

"Honestly, old man. This is bloody chaos."

With a grin, more impish than all present imps, Puckish, Gizzard said, "Dark One _like_ chaos." He moved his arms about, a conductor of chaos. Belle and Ruby exchanged a look, and Belle somehow _knew_ they were both thinking of Fantasia.

It seemed to give Rumpelstiltskin pause. He grinned a grin to match Gizzard's, and Belle found it a trifle alarming on his human face. She felt Ruby shudder.

"I suppose you're right." Rumpelstiltskin mused. He hung up his coat, and began moving about the house, assessing. Belle could see that he moved through magic, made all the more thick, tangible, for the presence of the little fae. Yes, he liked it.

"Still." he smiled, looking over his shoulder to Gizzard. "You mustn't make it an unsettled, crazy home for Belle. We must have some order. Some calm."

Gizzard snuggled close to her neck. He purred, " _Belle_..."

"Yes." she answered.

"Wuby _wolf_."

"I know."

"Has _bad_ mouth."

Belle glanced at Ruby, who again rolled her eyes.

"Could I get a little help?" Killian asked. He staggered deeper into the house, weighted down with Sprets. In answer, Rumpelstiltskin pointed and laughed, which Belle took to be his new, go-to response to the pirate. At least it wasn't openly homicidal.

"Oh." Killian replied amiably. "Well. Fuck off, then."

Rumpelstiltskin tsked his forefinger. "Language, dearie."

He disappeared into the kitchen, where he again called out, "Miss Lucas?"

Ruby groaned, hand to her temple. To Belle's querulous glance, she said, "They made little houses out of take-out boxes."

Baelfire gave a crooked grin at that, departing for the kitchen. "Hey..." Killian called after him, still a Spret playground. Belle went to help de-Spret the pirate, and said, "Oh, Gizzard. What will we do? How will I learn everyone's name?"

"Not to fwet."

While she lured implings off of Killian, cooing and offering tendrils of hair, Gizzard communicated in an odd language. It raised goosebumps on Belle's arms... it was the wind through leaves, the scuttle of dry, parchment leaves on gravel. It was low, chattering baby talk, like blue-jays, when they secreted themselves in the shadow and leaf of deep cover. Murmured, secret spells.

Between the two of them, the little things released their hold on Killian and dispersed around the house. They camouflaged to the wood tone of antiques; they slipped into large keyholes of leather-bound chests. Those not done playing busied themselves at the coat rack, or scurried over tapestry. Several climbed the stepped, curved cover of a roll-top desk, then slid down its frame.

"Thank you." Killian breathed, looking about himself, spooked as if he'd found nests of spiders in his hair. He pulled his shirt away from his chest and peered within.

"You're welcome." Belle said, and Gizzard croaked, "Welcome."

Meeting Belle's eyes, Killian said, "So... _this_ is what the Dark One and his girl get up to? Couldn't you just buy Sea Monkeys, or something?"

"Gizzard _Spwet_."

"Yeah, mate. Just saying."

Belle only shrugged, returning to Ruby as Killian headed for the relative safety of being at Baelfire's side. Leaning close to Belle, Ruby said, " _Who_ is that?"

"Oh... I didn't introduce you... to _anyone_. I'm sorry Ruby. It's been so weird."

"Uh-huh. Who _is_ that?"

"I'm not completely sure." Belle said. "His name is Killian Jones. He's from Rumpel's past... and, I guess, got suspended in time, somewhere with Baelfire. He was a pirate. _Is_ a pirate? Lord. I don't know. Rumpel _hates_ him."

"And the other one is the Dark... is Rumpelstiltskin's son?"

"Yes. Baelfire. But he wants to be called 'Neal'."

Giving a considering look, Ruby said, "Well, damn. They're both cute... but that _pirate_."

Cute. Belle supposed they were, but it hadn't really registered. Their looks were colored by the way she'd felt in the city; by the mild feeling of threat she felt, still.

"Cute." Gizzard said. Blanching, Ruby said, "Don't you go repeating it, Gizz."

He tittered, and croaked, " _Cute_."

 


	10. Auld Acquaintance

Rumpelstiltskin's house was called a 'cottage', and it embodied all of the cozy quaintness the word implied. Nevertheless, startling to Baelfire, there were at least five bedrooms or so. Not to mention things like a study, a sunroom... a sort of greenhouse, attached to the house, where Baelfire was amused to find both his father and Belle did some pottering about.

It was slightly less amusing to realize they were probably growing ingredients for spells... little botanists of evil. But still, it was weird. It was a bit like his father before the advent of the Dark One; amiable and quiet, tinkering about with stuff.

Belle was so different from his mother. The way she poked around with Rumpelstiltskin, curious and more talkative when engaged with him, alone. She liked his ways... she liked his spinning wheel and when he rolled up his sleeves and got busy in the kitchen.

He couldn't forgive his father for a lot of things, and his mother was at the top of the list. However, he'd been aware, even as a boy, that Milah was a primo, top-shelf bitch. He'd actually felt protective of his father, protecting him from her; her vile words. The things Belle seemed to love about his father were things his mother had hated. On the one hand, his spinning had been their main source of income, and his cooking had given her some time off of her feet. Within the context of house and home, she'd appreciated those things.

... But she'd found them womanish. It wasn't what she wanted of a husband. Once his father was crippled, her pronouncement of those things as womanish had become regular, and poisoned with bile. Baelfire had hated her at times, which compounded his feelings of guilt and sorrow, now. He hadn't seen his father as womanish... he'd once been a sweet man.

She'd wanted someone she considered to be a _man_... and Baelfire became squeamish and uncomfortable to think that her choice had been Killian Jones. Based on the Killian he'd come to know over the long years, he had to wonder if Milah hadn't desired someone who looked and acted the dominant man, but perhaps reversed the roles behind closed doors.

In his father's house, the bed Baelfire was tucked into was the most comfortable bed he'd ever been in... in his entire life. If his father wanted to bribe him with money, prosperity, this went a long way towards that goal. He could consider forgiveness, reconciliation, based on the bed, alone. He was so cushioned and warm, the room snug and smelling of some hot, buttered drink. Or maybe apple cider. Even in darkness, he felt safe and sound... he didn't wear his hoodie to protect himself from cold, as well as roaches and possibly an overly interested rat.

He'd spent so many years crammed into unpleasant spaces... curled tight in a fetal position at night, catching winks of sleep. Unless he drank himself to sleep, and experienced the feeling of a stone dropped into black water. Gone. The next day a blank slate.

Now he stretched. Even at the end of the bed, his bare feet were warm; _must_ be magic. If so, he had to admit that it was good stuff. Maybe he could be turned. The last time he'd come anywhere close to being so comfortable was when he shared a bed with Emma.

His bedroom door opened with a soft click. He tensed a little, though - really - it was hard to tense up while so plushly cocooned. He automatically expected to see his father, in full-on courtship mode. A guardian teddy bear wearing a bow-tie of cash, maybe accompanied by a sippy-cup filled with a stunning, single malt. The light from the hallway showed the dark figure of Killian, and he unclenched.

"What's up, Kill?"

Killian edged into the room. As Baelfire's eyes took in more soft light, it was as if he beheld a debauched rock star. Bare chested, yet winking with gaudy jewelry; barefoot, leather trousers Jim Morrison low slung.

Voice low, Killian said, "I can't sleep. I don't fancy closing my eyes under the Dark One's roof. Can I stay here?"

With a snort, Baelfire said, "I seriously doubt he'd be filled with delight to find you in bed with me."

"I know, mate. But at least I could get a little shut-eye. If I sleep alone, what's to stop him from doing the obvious?"

Baelfire sighed. Knife in the belly, pillow over the face. Having come this far, he didn't think his father would up and murder Killian in his sleep, in a bed in his own house. But... the hatred ran very deep. It seemed to require violence more personal than magic. An in-your-face sort of vengeance.

He flipped the covers back, and said, "Yeah, alright. Climb in, big boy. Just don't bring any of your new, furry friends with you."

"Thanks, mate."

Killian closed the door, shutting out the light, and Baelfire heard quiet, shuffling about before Killian's body slid under the covers. His hand bumped a warm, very naked hip, and he said, "Aw... come on. Are you bare-assed?"

"Aye. You don't want me trousers under the covers, Bae. They could just about walk around on their own."

"Damn it, Kill. Shit. Oh, _no_... this isn't uncomfortable at all. I was just thinking of how unbelievably, freaking comfortable I was. Guess _that's_ over."

"Afraid you'll touch something you might like?"

He could hear amusement in Killian's voice. He didn't feel amused. He felt abruptly grumpy. It wasn't his first walk down this path with Killian.

"I've grown unused to having bedmates that wear a pelt." he grumbled.

"All the better to warm your bones, my dear."

Baelfire huffed. He rolled to his side, facing away from Killian. He, himself, wore sweatpants and a t-shirt. Like a normal person. Killian... _Jesus_. The nudist, rock refugee from nefarious and suspiciously bohemian waters. Playing a wolf. Sailors once called Orca whales the 'wolves of the sea', and - as it happened - he habitually called Killian 'Kill'. He couldn't help it. It was like his father, and Killian for that matter, calling him 'Bae'.

He'd heard women, swoony-voiced, say that Killian had 'wolf eyes'. His eyes were a startling blue, not unlike Belle's. But the blue was deeper, ocean touched, and what differed from Belle was the precise and dark outline around the irises. The idiot had become aware of his prettier traits, and he dolled himself up, like a belly dancer, kohl around his eyes. Like a rock star.

They're not wolf's eyes, he wanted to tell the enchanted women. More often than not, those women were seriously barking up the wrong tree. Although... Killian was changeable. Flexible, one might say. But wolves didn't have blue eyes... no matter what the movies liked to portray. What Killian had were the eyes of a husky. A malamute... a _dog_. Canis domesticus; somehow it was more fitting.

But then, so did he. The only person who'd ever spoken to him about his eyes, which he found very ordinary, was Emma. He had such a clear image of her face in sunlight, a light wind lifting strands of her hair... her own eyes green in that cool, blonde way. Pale blonde; rather than the tanned, brazen and beachy things of magazine layouts.

She'd touched his face, and he'd felt convinced she had powers of healing. She'd said, "Awww... look at those puppy-dog eyes."

　

　

　

 


	11. Reconnect

Almost always, it was Rumpelstiltskin who burrowed down against Belle at night. Close to her breasts, often cupping one, or nuzzled to her neck.

So much had changed, and - for the moment - that had changed as well. Belle lay almost on top of Rumpelstiltskin, her face pressed to his neck, her hands in his hair. She sought the reassurance of pipe smoke in his hair, and found it... along with the ghost of rain. She was so unsettled, it felt as if he had to tether her. If his arms weren't wrapped around her, she'd simply drift up, balloon-like. Up, out of the window, into the night that still stormed around the house. She could feel her pulse at her neck and wrists, even in the arches of her feet. It was fluttery; too fast.

"Hush, love." Rumpelstiltskin said.

Was he speaking to her blood? "I didn't say anything."

"I feel you, dearie. Let it go. Everything will be alright."

She wiggled atop him a little, and he held her closer.

Big, boy-men in the house... she thought she heard snoring, rather loud to reach her over the pounding rain. Little Sprets all over. Some had tucked themselves into their carry-out bins, but they were all throughout the house. Escaping the storm. They listened to Gizzard and more or less behaved, but Belle felt like everything was spiraling out of control.

"Kiss me." Rumpelstiltskin murmured.

She kissed his neck, so warm, his hair soft and ticklish at her cheek. Pushing up, she found his mouth in the dark, and pressed her lips to his. His hands stroked her back, one moving into her hair, cupping the back of her skull. His warmth seeped into her, and his mouth opened. His tongue sought hers.

It took only seconds... the touch of his tongue, the solid, purring heat of his body lit her from the inside, so that she yearned to him, her bare sex pressed just above his hipbone; she throbbed against warm skin, and exhaled in a rush against his lips.

With a content sound, he pulled her higher up his body, completely on top of him. Belle found herself resting her head on the pillow, beside his, his hands splayed over her bum, pulling up her gown and baring her beneath the covers. Knees near his ribs, she over him, childlike. Her upper body went limp, and she breathed in unsteady breaths as his fingers toyed lightly between her legs.

... But she fretted. The house full of masculine and fae presence upset her balance.... and she couldn't be certain there weren't Sprets in the bedroom. Maybe even Gizzard, the thought of whom made her blush.

"Oh, Rumpel." she sighed. "Sex doesn't solve everything." She was more of less quoting other women. She wasn't completely sure of her own thoughts on the matter.

He played with her, squeezing buttocks and dandling fingertips to wetness and heat. He touched against the febrile pulse of her clitoris, and said, "Indeed? It solves _some_ things, surely. It's often an answer unto itself."

Pushing up on her hands, she tried to see him in the dark. She mostly saw a dark shape... his long nose was in silhouette against the blue-black light that was soft at the window.

"I don't want them to hear me." she whispered.

He chuckled, fingers in a more aggressive stroke at her clitoris, making her gasp and squirm. In spite of her words, her hips tilted back, and she made a small whimper to feel his finger slide inside her.

"Do you hear that snoring? I doubt they'll hear a blessed thing, dearie. But, if you want me to, I'll cover your mouth."

His fingers thrust; Belle's eyes closed and her mouth opened, silent in darkness. It gave her a strange, shuddering feeling... the image of his hand muffling her, his cock driving into her. She felt herself spasm against his fingers, and felt a surge of heat go through his body.

" _Yes_." she whispered.

"Yes? You want me to?"

She nodded, her head against his. She kissed him again, her sex clenching, nerve endings sending thrills through her body with each touch, each wet slide and flutter of his tongue.

Abruptly, he rolled her over, topping her, his presence in the dark animal like. Belle felt more than saw him suck his fingers, then she felt his hand come between their bodies, grasping his cock. She'd been so confused since finding Baelfire... uncertain about the future... It was with pure relief that she felt the familiarity of his motions. He rubbed the head of his cock against her sex, getting slippery with her wetness. The soft, apricot-like skin of the head was almost the velour lick of a tongue against her, teasing her opening and titillating the ever more needy bud.

He slid inside her fully, making her arch back with a rush of feeling. Pleasure-ache... a moment of feeling stretched that became a quickly escalating feeling of shocking need, wanton craving. She wanted only the pistoning feel of his cock thrusting into her. Her knees came up, settling him more soundly into her, making him moan at her ear. His voice, as always, caused a bearing down, a squeeze of her sex... a spike of intense pleasure.

His body shifted, rolling them partially to the side. He hoisted one of her legs over his arm, groaning to thrust even more deeply into her. At her first moan, a gasp turned keening cry, his palm covered her mouth firmly.

Belle felt it like she felt his hand on her throat... a feeling she sometimes felt even when fully dressed and around others, when he kept his hand at the small of her back. She didn't fully understand the change that happened inside of her, but it was real.... Both physical, heightening all that her body felt, and yet it was also something that moved in her mind. A shadow, and she hungered for it.

Her eyes stayed closed and her throat made noise, her sounds muffled at his hand. She breathed hard through her nose, her arms locked around Rumpelstiltskin as he thrust. His cock drove deeply into her, and his hips pounded fast. His breath, his own muffled cries at her ear sent spasms and heat waves through her body.

He bit against her neck. At her ear, a harsh whisper, he asked, "Do you like it, love? Do you like when I _fuck_ you?"

She couldn't answer, muzzled as she was. She whimpered, flexing her hips to meet his. He whispered, panting, "I want you to come for me... you're squeezing me so tight. Come all over my cock, dearie... _come_ for me."

His voice moved with the shadow moving in her mind, and sent fingerlings of shivers all over her body. A helpless wail in her chest and throat tried to emerge, her body arched and tense. His hand over her mouth, her jaw, became all the more firm, and it _triggered_ her... her body contracted and squeezed so that he was nearly pushed out of her. He groaned, hips in an erratic volley of thrusts, and Belle felt herself erupt into release, into light. Without pain, it was as if she turned inside-out; shifted her shape. As the peak of her release faded, she felt Rumpelstiltskin pressed to her, flush to her sex; the pulsing of his cock emptying into her.

He might have stifled her cries, but an echoing, belated sense of sound made Belle realize that, at the end, the headboard had banged in a relentless hammering against the wall. In the new hush, she didn't hear snoring.

" _Mm mm."_ she said, behind his hand.

It seemed he'd forgotten he muzzled her. His hand came quickly away, moving into her hair, and he asked, "What, love?"

" _Oh, no_."

"It seemed rather like 'oh, yes' to me."

She slapped at him weakly, almost seeing his smile. "No snoring." she worried.

"Oh... " He nuzzled his lips against her. "Well. No matter." he sighed, " You've just shown them who's in charge here, dearie. I think you've been established as the alpha female."

Belle felt mortified, wanting to smack him again as she felt the huff of his chuckle at her neck. _Alpha female_. She thought it was more likely he'd established something alpha-like about himself. Mustering a little strength, she gave a sharp slap to his bum. It caused a little ripple of pressure and pleasure at her lower belly as his hips made a grind; he was still half-hard. He laughed.

"See?" he said.

　

 


	12. Weird Shit...

Rumpelstiltskin hummed to himself as he made breakfast. He often cooked for himself and Belle, a small repast. Thinking on Baelfire in the diner, he was going for grand.

... But did he actually have to cook for the bleeding pirate? His humming was interrupted as he stared at pinkish-brown eggs in their snug, little carton. Potential Spret housing. A touch of seethe marked his face as he considered Jones.

Gizzard was perched nearby, hugged to the coffee pot cord. He said, " _Bae_ to feed Hook."

With a sigh, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I suppose you're right, old man." He cracked two more eggs into a mixing bowl, and his humming resumed. Cooking was soothingly similar to spell-casting.

_Hm-hm-hm-hmmm_.... What was that? With a start, a small, peering-around cringe of embarrassment, he realized it was 'So This Is Love', the Disney duet of Cinderella and Prince Charming. _Gods_. Belle listened to all sorts of music... some of it stuck with him, but much was fairly alien to his ears. He was forever picking up on old fashioned, lilting, waltz-like tunes. Self conscious, he stopped humming the tune, but Gizzard picked it up. Hugging the electrical cord tighter, he squeezed his eyes shut.

" _Hm-hm-hm-hmmmm_..."

It couldn't be helped... Rumpelstiltskin hummed along with him.

The kitchen window was broad and caught sunlight from the freshly washed sky; pale, pearly-blue. Light spilled over the counter and ceramic-tiled floor. A blaze of the rising sun made a stark path over the kitchen table, and light sparkled in water droplets from the roof's ledge. Coffee brewed, the power behind it fueling up Gizzard, the scent heady and alluring. Rumpelstiltskin felt enormously content.

But for the pirate, his house was well in order. He had magic, and Gizzard brought even more of it... magic of the deep underground. Belle's magic. His lover and his son were safe and sound, under his roof. And... the surprise.

It was disconcerting, that he hadn't had any idea of Baelfire's possible involvement in the making of Henry... Of which Baelfire seemed spooked and certain. He'd known of the savior, and he'd known - when he'd obtained the baby boy for Regina - that he was the savior's only child, her son. Those things were all part of the plan.

.... But Baelfire? Such an important connection, _personally_ important, and it had been nowhere in his _sight_. It was unsettling, making him wonder what else he hadn't _seen_. What other surprises, pleasant or otherwise, might pop up? The rather jarring aspects of the surprise couldn't quite disturb his feeling of contentment, however. If it was true, if Henry was Baelfire's son; it was another connection. Another thread.

He had no illusions that Baelfire had come to Storybrooke for his sake... it was for Emma. But he was _here_. And if Henry was his son... Rumpelstiltskin's grandson; the thought caused an odd shiver... then Baelfire might be in Storybrooke indefinitely. Henry had two mothers, lucky boy. The savior wasn't likely to tear him away from Regina.

And it seemed quite possible that whither Emma goest, so goest Baelfire.

He took a small turn around the kitchen with an imaginary partner as he hummed, a twirl and a slide in sock feet, spatula  outstretched. Things had taken a turn, indeed.

Rumpelstiltskin was long used to working magic... taking it in hand and bending it to his cause. But now... Could it be that the magic was on his side?

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Belle considered wearing everything she owned. The banging of the headboard had somewhat left her during sleep, but she woke up to full blown horror. She sat up, alone in her bed, and the rushing return of mortification left her dizzy. As she had the night before, she groaned, " _Oh, no_...."

Well, she wasn't alone in her bed. She should have known. A small voice said, "Oh, no?" A Gizzard-like face peeped out of the covers, giving the appearance of wearing a hood.

Suppressing a little yelp, feeling a brief, pins and needles flare in her limbs, Belle said, "Hello." And how long was _this_ one here, she wondered. Mortification piled upon mortification.... Was she corrupting Sprets by the dozens?

"Oh, _noooo_....!" The impling repeated, back of it's little hand to it's forehead, full of woeful drama.

Yes, Belle thought. That's right. She asked, "Who are you?"

"I Egg."

"Egg?"

The little imp giggled, squeezing its eyes shut. It had a girlish manner, and Belle had to ask. Preparing to cause great offense, she asked, "Are you a boy or a girl, Egg?"

The dark eyes popped open; flashed. With a touch of a snarl, the Spret said, "I _girl_."

"Oh." Belle said, rather pleased. Another girl in the house. "Sorry to ask."

The Spret muttered to herself in her native language; the whispery leaf language. Belle sighed... Egg was probably swearing and cursing her name, no small notion when it came to Spret magic. Or maybe the Spret was declaring her a wanton hussy.

Coming out from under the covers, the Spret hopped-flew into her hair. These things loved her hair... Belle hoped they wouldn't start plucking hairs for nesting materials, or spells, as the blue-jays sometimes did to a very startled and offended Chloe.

" _Pret-ty_." Egg said, sifting though strands of reddish-brown.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lured by the scents of coffee and sizzling bacon, Belle forced herself out of her bedroom. On Egg's advise and encouragement, she decided against wearing _all_ of her clothes, but she still felt compelled to be as prim and modest as possible. Just shy of a nun's habit. She wore a thick, black sweater; the white and pristine cuffs and collar of a high necked blouse beneath. Her jeans were loose rather than form fitting. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a barrette, comely, yet she still had plenty falling about... to hide in, if need be.

Egg rode atop her head.

Covered and sensible as she presented herself, she still broke into a deep blush at Rumpelstiltskin's sly glance. Baelfire and Killian were seated at the kitchen table, hunkered over cups of coffee and waiting, like children, to be fed.

"Good morning, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin murmured, an unmistakable purr warming his voice. It was a seductive, bedroom voice, and Belle ducked behind her hair at once.

" 'Morning." she muttered, heading for the cabinet with coffee cups.

"You've got a growth of some sort." Killian observed.

"That's Egg."

Looking up at the Spret, Rumpelstiltskin made a face at her. "Oh, dear. We're _eating_ eggs, you see."

" _Bad_." she shook a digit at him.

"Rumpel, don't make her turn into a big, monster-thingie while she's on my head."

"Oh." Killian sounded sober. "So... they do that sort of thing, do they?"

Egg, registering Killian, had an excited rush of Spret-speak. It was followed by a little, " _Ah_!" She propelled herself from Belle and was a little blur; zippy, in the manner of a hummingbird. She landed on Killian's shoulder and sighed.

"Oh, gods." he groaned.

Baelfire smiled at him, watching Egg happily tap a bauble that dangled from his ear. Dark jet or garnet. As with Belle's hair, she cooed, " _Pret-ty_."

Belle accepted a cup of coffee from Rumpelstiltskin and settled at the table. With the _boys_. Oh, the horror.

Clearly, they'd heard. Baelfire wouldn't look at her at all... he stared at Killian and Egg, at the table, out of the window... it was a stiff and uncomfortable feeling, and Belle wanted to flee. Perhaps to bathe for a few days.

Killian, however, stared at her. The barest hint of a smile touched his face. When he brought his coffee cup to his lips, his eyes were merrily lascivious above it. The effect was only marginally compromised by Egg, contentedly trilling at his shoulder.

I've done nothing wrong, Belle kept reminding herself. She and Rumpelstiltskin were a couple... of course sex was a part of it. But... oh. She was so accustomed to isolation. A castle and a Deadlands empty of all but herself and Rumpelstiltskin.... owls and rabbits, crows and foxes. Knowing that Baelfire, even Killian, had heard her activity with Rumpelstiltskin made her feel as though she'd accidently walked naked into her father's war-room. _Hiya. Wazzup with the Ogres?_

Rumpelstiltskin set all manner of food on the table and settled down beside Belle. Gizzard joined, Egg's counterpoint, perching on the back of Belle's chair. "Dig in." Rumpelstiltskin said, pointedly not including Killian in his encompassing glance.

Baelfire needed no prompting. Where did he put it all, Belle wondered? Leaving no space on his plate, he piled on scrambled eggs, bacon, slices of fresh tomato, an apple-walnut muffin, hot from the oven, and diced potatoes fried with onion and green peppers.

Killian was somewhat more modest in his helpings, and Rumpelstiltskin only took a muffin. Giving his sleepy-eyed look to Belle again, he ate half of the muffin in one bite, wolfish. His dark eyes sparkled with it, and she blushed again, done in by his muffin-eating message. Did he intend to keep her worked up, aroused and thinking bad thoughts, even in the presence of these people?

Little sounds were rustling... Sprets rousing, throughout the house. It was all a touch maddening.

Aiming for anything other than her own sex-life, she asked, "Will you see Emma today, B.. Neal?"

He still wouldn't look at her. Mouth full and cheeks chipmunkish, he shook his head, no.

"Why not, mate?" Killian sounded surprised. "Isn't that why we're here?"

The chewing and swallowing took a moment, then Baelfire, still shaking his head, looking at his plate, said, "I'll see her. But... I can't, today. Not yet." To Rumpelstiltskin, he added, "Can you show me her son? Like, at a distance."

"Indeed."

"Well, let's do that, then."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, and warmed up everyone's coffee, but for Killian. Pushing his chair back, Killian stood and said, "No, don't get up. I'll help meself." Rumpelstiltskin waved him away like a gnat, and both Belle and Baelfire had a knee-jerk flinch, as if magic might emerge from the wave and do something carnivorous. It was, however, only dismissive.

Sitting back down, Killian said, "The Dark One puts out quite a spread."

Working on a second helping, Baelfire said, "Mmph."

Gizzard scaled down Belle's arm to the table, and sat cross-legged, sharing her onions and peppers. Noticing, Egg abandoned Killian and joined Gizzard beside Belle's plate. Belle started breaking up bits of apple and walnut from her muffin; she created a Spret buffet.

After a long silence, a sunlit time of contemplative digestion, Baelfire said, "I've seen some weird shit, but..."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, and Killian said, "Sing it, brother."

 


	13. Emma

It was one of those days... crisp and cold, the sky storm-washed and so clear, it seemed empty. A vast stretch of emptiness... Emma felt like she could reach out her hand and feel layer upon layer of _empty._

She had a strange feeling. It was almost a feeling of being watched, that prickle at her neck, a little ache at the corners of her eyes. So often such a feeling would cause her to turn, and there was little surprise in spotting someone who stared at her from a nearby table, or across the street.

Sometimes her sensory perceptions seemed a tad _extra_ , but were so habitual, so taken for granted... she rarely questioned them. It was just one of those things, like knowing when people lied. Hearing the words unspoken.

It didn't seem that anyone was watching her, though, and so the prickle and ache left her feeling haunted. Leaves that scurried after her made her jumpy. Her own reflection in shop windows, dark and dusty, was unsettling. Her eyes were dark shadows, her mouth a line that seemed too severe. The darker reflection seemed to age her, to show a bare-bones, witch-like woman whom she could relate to not at all.

She paused at Gold's shop; closed. She'd heard he was back... he was running a little later than his usual, chipper, eager-for-evil-mayhem self. Leaning to the glass and cupping her hand around her eyes, she peered into the gloom. A shadow and bulk of antiques and trinkets... she felt an internal jump, startled, when her eyes landed on an old, fortune telling machine. She could only think of the movie, "Big". The open eyes of the garish figure sent a painful _zing_ through her body... What was she looking for?

Damn. The urge to run away was strong. How could she be certain she hadn't lost it? That was to say, treasured marbles and important parts of her deck. Like, really and truly, wandering a psyche ward in her bathrobe _lost_ it. It would make more sense than the life she was currently trying to piece together. Maybe the only real person in her periphery was Archie, and he was a doctor back in the city. He was trying to work out how to diagnose and treat her while she explained to him how it came to be that her parents were Snow White and Prince... Charming. Her... step-grandmother? was an evil Queen who had cursed everyone in her kingdom. And, at present, she couldn't shake a strong, pestering feeling that she should really have a word with Mr. Gold, who - in fact - was some sort of sorcerer, goblin person named Rumpelstiltskin. A baby thief; though who the heck knew _why_? Who apparently had _not_ split himself in two with rage, but was rather a sort of two-for-one entity... and both parts were probably evil.

Whenever she summarized for herself, the psych ward scenario seemed like the only sensible conclusion. And yet she felt very much in the here and now; the feel and smell of the fresh, clear day. The clenching of her belly and softening of her heart whenever she saw Henry. Because of him, she couldn't find it in herself to run away... but the urge was strong. It kept her pulse a fidgety nuisance; it kept her living out of a semi-packed bag. While she might, in the name of mental health, be committed... she lacked commitment. The second part was a life-long habit.

From someone's chimney came a scent of wood smoke. Emma had never lived long in a place where people had nice, cozy homes, fireplaces and traditions of hot cider... the scent recalled for her camping outside in cold weather. Taking shelter with other teenagers, some of whom couldn't be trusted. Her mind, on autopilot, stirred up the scents of kerosene lanterns, and a musty, almost rubbery scent of tents and sleeping bags. Camping in the woods in what appeared to be a MASH unit, using equipment some kid stole from his dad.

Good thing, then, that Henry had grown up in the Mayor's mansion. What a contrast. It was rather chilly in appearance, but Emma knew it was warm on the inside. The kid had never been hungry, never missed school... he'd always slept in his own room, in his own bed. Consistently.

It pained her that she couldn't have offered that sort of life. She felt like such a failure, and yet... how pleased he'd been to discover that she carried him in _jail_. In fact, he might be a little irritated that his colorful past was primarily in utero. That he looked to her as if she wore a Wonder Woman costume was both pleasurable and frightening.

Emma moved on. There were other things to consider. Regina. The town...

It had settled down, somewhat. The fallout seemed to be more in the area of personal crises rather than a continued plot to execute Regina. Whale and his hair, the dwarfs and their career indecision. Most were coping.

But Regina... was hard for Emma to read. Certainly she lied, but she also told the truth. Her belief in the necessity of her lies, or the things she didn't bring to light, was such that it colored things, confused them. Regina's own belief in her cause gave a feeling of validity to lies both impassioned and unspoken, and it left Emma wondering what was what.

Gold was very similar. The two of them... surely bipolar and suspicious in every way, and yet both often managed to make her wonder if _she_ was the crazy one. They could sound so freaking _reasonable_ when they wished to. Maybe she was making mountains of molehills... creating conspiracy theories to go along with her generalized anxiety over politics, global warming, GMOs... That they could continue to make her question herself after the lifting of the curse was saying something.

She let herself into Granny's, her current home and her destination a few times every day. Storybrooke was so small... she wondered where people went when they sought things like strip clubs or an Apple Store. For Emma, Granny's had become breakfast nook, lunch counter and bar. Often it was a source of information. For her parents, it was a sort of town hall.

"Hey, Emma." Ruby said.

Emma had to smile at her get-up. Even in the cold, Ruby managed an aggressive sort of sexiness, walking a model's walk on spikey, high heeled boots, ruffed with fur. Her sweater was tight, and though a warm scarf encircled her neck, her sweater was low cut and displayed the assiduous work of an ambitious push-up bra.

"Hey, Ruby."

"Hot cocoa?"

"Yeah, thanks."

She sat at the counter and drummed her fingers. Widow Lucas stuck her head out of the back to say hello, and she waved. She attuned herself to the few, sparse patrons; people still sleepy over coffee... but for Archie. He appeared to be fueled on granola and something freshly squeezed, and he straightened out the newspaper he read with a crisp _snap_.

There he was... the one, real person in all of Storybrooke. He was very tweedy.

Ruby returned with the cocoa, complete with a topping of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. "Thanks." Emma smiled.

She leaned on the counter, hand cupping her chin. Up-thrust bosom threatened escape; Emma made herself look away from the danger of spillage. "Belle and Gold are home." she said.

"Yeah, I heard they got in. Leroy has quite the neighborhood watch going."

"They brought home Gold's son."

Really? This was hard to picture.

"No kidding?" Emma said. "Is he like.... a mini-Gold?"

Shaking her head, swiveling her chin on the heel of her hand, Ruby said, "Nope. Not at all. He'd all _growzed_ -up, and kind of a cutie. He brought a friend with him, and.... _hoo..._ boy. _Hot_."

Smiling, Emma said, "Really?" She was in a seemingly endless phase of couldn't-care-less-about-hot, but Ruby was amusing.

"Woof." Ruby said, then made a little moue to show she joked at her own expense. Walking away, over her shoulder, she said, "Wait'll you see."

Interesting, Emma thought. Storybrooke brought her to her family; Gold had to go outside to find his... yet, presumably, the son was from the same world as the rest of Storybrooke's people. Magic... was she considering it seriously? was an untrustworthy thing.

She glanced at Archie again, considering her psych ward theory. At some point in faerie tale history, Gold... no; one of the _nuns_? was supposed to have turned Archie into a cricket.

_Jiminy_ Cricket. As revealed to her by Pinocchio.

Loss of marbles, incomplete card decks... all more plausible.

 


	14. Strange Lass

"Where is it that you're taking me, again?" Killian asked. The concept seemed too foreign to grasp.

Belle repeated, "Bird rehabilitation."

"Like... for birds trying to recover from addition?"

"Yes, Killian. Like that." He was grating at her nerves a bit... these new people were cutting into her alone time.

Mostly due to seething and bloody animosity between Killian and Rumpelstiltskin, a divide and conquer approach was being taken to the day. Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire were on a lurking, stalking mission to spot the wild Henry in its natural environment, as Rumpelstiltskin presented to Belle. He wasn't getting in the confined space of a car with Killian again, nor did he trust the pirate alone in the house.

So Killian was hers, and it made Belle a bit grumpy. He would just have to tag along on her usual day. That notion seemed to amuse Rumpelstiltskin, but he nevertheless threatened Killian with loss of something more treasured than a hand, should he become bothersome to Belle.

To which Killian replied, "You say the sweetest things, Crocodile."

The day had almost ended before it began. Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth; not surprisingly, Killian snarled back, and said, "Oh, yes. That's it. _Show_ your teeth, Croc! Show them all what you really are!"

Rumpelstiltskin held out his hand, and his cane flew into its waiting grasp. Many Spret eyes looked up as it sailed. He brought it nearly upside of Killian's head, but for a last second block; a capture and fling with the hook. Still, Killian went down, swearing. He was followed at once by Rumpelstiltskin's lunging body, which startled Belle a great deal.

She hadn't expected Rumpelstiltskin to _bodily_ engage with the pirate. Panic rose within her, as if she'd come upon a snarling, snap-jawed dog fight; flung saliva and drawn blood, flying fur. How to separate them without being harmed in the fray?

"You piece of _shite_!" Rumpelstiltskin spat, the heel of one hand grinding into the pirate's mouth, fingers clenched to dark jaw and preventing much of a reply. "I'll kill you, I'll fry your blood! You negligible _knob_ weasel!"

Unable to think of the right name, Belle yelled, " _Bae_!"

The loud stomping of chunky boots. Sprets fleeing. Weirdly, there was a similarity in the men who grappled and rolled and bloodied one another on the floor. Both were in all black, with touches of deep maroon. Both were gnashing of teeth and blazing of eyes. Each one believed himself to be in the right. To be righteous.

"Oh, mother fucker." Baelfire said, sounding tired and surprising Belle a bit with his language. He stepped into the circle of escalating heat, and pulled a wildly jerking-about Rumpelstiltskin off of Killian. Belle had never seen him so agitated, so physically aggressive... his hair a flinging mess, blood running from the corner of his mouth, fists bloodied.

It was the second time in a matter of days that she'd seen Rumpelstiltskin's blood. She felt her eyes go wide, a numbness in her fingers. Then Gizzard was at her shoulder, making a strange hum. It seemed to leech some of the panic she felt, and her hand rose to make contact with the Spret.

"I guess we need a babysitter for the two of you." Baelfire huffed. Rumpelstiltskin was still a riotous, moving thing in his arms, and he rode it out.

Killian pushed himself upright, his face worse off than Rumpelstiltskin's.

"Come on, Bae." Rumpelstiltskin growled. "Just let me kill the bastard. It'll be quick and clean."

"Oh, aye mate. That it will." Killian said, and lunged to Rumpelstiltskin's trapped form. Baelfire flinched back, jerking Rumpelstiltskin back with him, and both he and Belle shouted, " _NO_!" As in the city, Killian's lunge was hook first.

Something happened.... At Belle's cry, a force ran through her body. It felt as if it came from Gizzard, his little hands on her shoulder. He still hummed, but there was a spike in the sound, almost a growl, a revving of an engine. The feeling of it rushed through Belle, a hot burst in her bones and muscles. She felt as if it moved, bullet-like, fueled with fire, from her hands.

A bright, blue-white light exploded into life between Killian and his intended target, and Killian was thrown backward. Like the cane, he sailed... three sets of human eyes watched in disbelief as he made a surprisingly graceful arc through the living room, only to land in a heap of black, crumpled and unevenly draped over an overstuffed chair.

Belle looked at him in horror. Had she done that? Did she _break_ him? Turning to Rumpelstiltskin and his son, she was confronted by dark eyes, shocked, and slack jaws. After a moment, Rumpelstiltskin asked, "Did you do that, dearie?"

Belle could hardly speak. Voice croaking, she said, "I don't know. Maybe Gizzard?"

"I help." Gizzard said. "Help Belle."

Detaching from Baelfire, whose grip had gone slack, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Good man."

"There I was." Baelfire mumbled to himself. "Doing alright. Normal life, steady job..."

"Living with the rats and stealing for your supper." Rumpelstiltskin added. He approached the untidy heap of pirate, and flicked his fingers against Killian's forehead. "Is it dead?" he asked, wiping his fingers on his trousers.

"You're a real piece of work." Baelfire said, approaching. "Get away from him."

"Why do you protect him, Bae?"

"He's my friend. Could you stop trying to kill him?"

"He keeps trying to kill me _first_." Rumpelstiltskin said, hands out. "That's _always_ been the way."

Belle muttered, "Oh, for crying out loud." She headed for the bathroom to fetch a damp washcloth.

"For cry." Gizzard murmured, going deeper into her hair. "For cry, Belle."

"Yes."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Killian had not died, and Belle felt that - for someone so recently beaten about the face and knocked unconscious - he was a bit too snarky. He was twitchy and sort of ADHD. He had to be entertained.

"This is Owl Capone." she said, introducing him to a barred owl. The owl regarded Killian suspiciously, ducking its head and swinging it back and forth, Egyptian belly-dancer style.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." Killian said, his voice low and his manner as suspicious as the owl.

He watched, looking a little confused, as Belle looked down in mimicry of Owl Capone's stance, and they touched foreheads. The owl made several content clicks of his beak, and Belle felt Killian step back.

"He's not aiming to bite." she said, her voice quiet. "He's showing me he's pleased."

"Aye?"

She nodded, her head rubbing against the owl's, taking in its dusty scent.

Dog-like, Killian followed her around as she cleaned cages, fed birds and released some into flight mews. She introduced him to a barn owl named Wheezy and a tiny, screech owl named Goliath. For a year it had been believed that Goliath was a male. Then she laid an egg.

"So... this is what you do?" Killian asked. "You take care of drug-addled birds?"

Belle gave him a look. Almost a smile. "Most were hit by cars." she said. "Some got into pesticide. One of the hawks lost an eye to a mob of crows."

"How does a bird get hit by a car?"

"Usually by eating road kill."

Killian wrinkled his nose, and Belle shrugged. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

Nodding, Killian said, "Preaching to the choir, sister."

He seemed a little unnerved when she fed the vultures. Mostly black vultures, some turkey vultures... they were big birds, and they followed her around, walking in a bizarre swagger; a side-to-side hop, wings held slightly out at the sides. Some made hissing sounds, followed by a gulping click. Looking down as they gathered about his legs, Belle saw Killian suppress a shudder.

"These are remarkably unattractive birds." he observed.

With a smile, Belle said, "They look like your people."

"Oh, thank you, love. How sweet of you to say."

"No, I mean... there you are, all in black and sort of a menace with that hook. Traveling at your feet is this crowd of black birds, with their reputation for following death."

"You're a strange lass."

"Don't I know it."

"What the devil did you do to me, back at the house?"

Belle was wielding a broom. It was achy work, and it annoyed her that Killian merely watched. Were he Mary Margaret, he'd have gotten a broom and pitched in. Once she got the water-hose out, she might accidentally turn it on him.

... Although, she wasn't sure how sweeping worked when one hand was replaced with a hook. She kept reminding herself that Rumpelstiltskin had _cut off_ the hand... sliced through muscle, bone, tendon... It seemed unreal, and she shivered with each self-reminder.

"I don't know." she answered him.

"Was it magic? Can you work magic, like the Dark One?"

"Not like Rumpel." Belle said, feeling the work of the broom at her shoulders and lower back. She usually took this time to ponder and dream.... ordinary tools prompting musings on the Goblin Queen, in flight on a broom with silver bells dangling from red ribbons... or spells of sweeping; sweeping up a storm, sweeping away evil. Stirring up trouble.

Killian's company, an ever black path, marked here and there with a startling confrontation of blue eyes, interrupted her dreaminess.

"But it _was_ magic?"

"Yes. Probably more from Gizzard than me. Killian... I _really_ wish you'd stop trying to murder Rumpel."

With a sigh, Killian stared heavenward. He looked surprised to see the black, hunched form of a buzzard, secreted in the high rafters.

Surprising Belle, he brought his gaze back to her, and said, "Have you got another broom, love? I can help. I've swabbed worse than bird shite."

Belle got the pirate a broom of his own, then watched with interest as he cradled it in the hook; his left-sided, lower grip; and used it as counter-balance to the sweeping motion of his right hand. He was fairly efficient.

Going back to her own work, she said, "When we're done here, we'll go to Granny's. I'll give you a proper introduction to Ruby. You'll like Ruby."

Flashing her a wicked smile, Killian said, "Oh, aye?"

Belle nodded. Maybe he _was_ cute, she thought. Anyway, it would make Ruby's day.

 


	15. Generations

Baelfire felt like an idiot. And a child. He was driven around by his father, who seemed none worse for wear for having been pummeled. A bit bruised, a healing cut near his eyes and puffy where his lip had been split... Overall, though, he seemed healthy and in ridiculously good spirits.

The windows of the car were dark, but Baelfire still hunkered down. He hid under his hat and within his slouch, and felt stupid. An adolescent boy, ushered about by papa. Meanwhile, his father was aggressively upright, casual with one, leather gloved hand on the wheel. Baelfire stole glances at his profile... that _nose_. Even in profile, the deep eyes were shrewd. A smile played about his recently abused mouth.

"What are you so happy about, Pop?"

A shrug and a considering frown. "I'm pleased, Bae. It's good to be out with you. To be around you."

"Stalking my possible bastard son?"

With a small laugh, Rumpelstiltskin said, "We were always an unconventional family. Henry's a good boy."

The last bit surprised Baelfire, and he stared at his father. Nothing deterred him, it seemed. Not Baelfire's own, surly resentment; not Killian looking for revenge. As long as his son was present and accounted for, Rumpelstiltskin maintained a measure of contentment.

What would _he_ feel, Baelfire wondered, if it turned out he had a son of his own? What would he do?

Rumpelstiltskin eased the car into a parking space not far from a park.... it seemed to be attached to a school. Nearby, a group of boys stood together; not running and playing, as Baelfire remembered of his own childhood. Their heads were together, their hands busy with various devices. He sighed, and Rumpelstiltskin said, " Aye. I don't understand the fascination with all the button and screens and... apps?"

"Yeah. Apps."

"He's the one closest to the red cedar."

"What?" Baelfire was startled. He hadn't realized the mission was fully afoot - he was unprepared.

Pointing, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Right there. See the one with the red and grey scarf?"

"The Hogwarts kid?"

"Aye. That's Emma's boy."

Baelfire felt like his heart had stopped. He raised the brim of his hat, staring. A boy who belonged to Emma, of exactly the right age. Who else could be the father? He couldn't begin to imagine that Emma had run around on him... they'd been so lost in one another.

"Jesus." he breathed, hand moving to cover his heart.

"Alright, Bae?"

"I don't know."

Every so often, the boy looked up from his game, looking into the faces of other boys. Sometimes he looked around in a way the other boys noticeably did not. Like he was scenting the air.... like he had an awareness they lacked. Baelfire began to see things in the boy, and his fingertips, grubby and emerging from fingerless gloves, pressed hard to the pain in his chest.

More than anything, he saw his father in Henry. Had no one noticed? There was a sharpness about the boy's face, and in it Baelfire could see Emma, especially around the mouth and chin. But the shape, the alertness... a quiet aura of 'I am behind the scenes'... he saw his father, quite possibly Henry's grandfather. Jesus, the kid had a nose. It lacked the bump along the bridge that so marked Rumpelstiltskin's, and yet carried its beaky length, lending an inquisitive air to Henry's eyes.

His coloring and the shape of his eyes... those were his. Baelfire felt a territorial recognition. He took his father's dark eyes, but they lacked his deeply hooded eyelids, the wide, almond shape. Like himself, Henry's eyes were narrowed and impish. A very slight slant marked them; they tended to a thoughtful gaze.

"What do you think?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. He reached across the seat and gripped Baelfire's shoulder, and Baelfire was surprised to feel reassurance in the touch. He swallowed.

"I think he looks like you." he said.

"Do you?" Rumpelstiltskin peered at Henry. "I hadn't considered it." He tilted his head, studying with interest.

With a low moan, Baelfire said, "Gods... I'm going to have to talk to Emma."

"Indeed."

"I bet she hates me."

He felt his father look at him, but he couldn't look away from the boy. He was smaller than the others.... that reminded him of Rumpelstiltskin, also. A familiar, protective feeling rose within him. He knew it could quickly become fierce.

From across the schoolyard, Baelfire saw her. It was too much, too vivid. She was _different_. The same, but different. Gone were her teenaged, nerd-girl glasses, her silly up-do and rag-doll wardrobe. She was sleek. Sleek, and even more serious-faced than Belle. She looked strong, and it was intimidating. She'd never looked so strong, before.

That pale hair... still so long. It fluttered behind her as she approached Henry on athletic, racehorse legs.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." Baelfire said. "Pop, let's go."

Without comment, hand leaving Baelfire's shoulder only briefly, Rumpelstiltskin reversed the car and drove slowly from the scene of Baelfire's undoing.

 


	16. Prophylactic Threats

Ruby's dark eyes were so wide. And heck, her cleavage was impressively showcased; framed, even. A scarf about her neck was a dark topper to the sweetheart neckline of her sweater, and there they were... the bodacious hills of her pale landscape. Belle wondered where all that bosom came from... Ruby was such a slim, coltish thing.

Never one to let a moment play out, Widow Lucas sidled up behind Ruby and said, "Stop staring at Wonder Boy, hon. The lunch crowd arriveth. Like locusts."

Ruby didn't move, but a blush suffused and warmed the rosy tint she'd dusted on her cheeks. After a moment of collecting herself, she exhaled in a little huff and gave Belle and Killian a sheepish smile. "Be right back. Why don't you two grab a booth."

Off she went, little, canvas apron tied about her narrow waist; a long, heart-shaped bum in a high-heeled hustle. Belle glanced at Killian. Men were often a little tongue-tied, or sometimes stupidly talkative around Ruby. She'd once seen a man pull out and open his wallet for her, displaying a healthy amount of cash. And then - alarmingly - he'd pulled a pistol from the waistband of his jeans, hidden beneath a loose but tidy Polo shirt. Rather than intended as a threat, it was as if he was reduced to communication in the most literal of manners... he could care for and protect Ruby. A bizarre sort of bragging.

It had freaked everyone out.

And there was Whale, of course. But that was different. Belle had a feeling that somewhere in his closet, he had a French Maid's outfit waiting for the day he lured Ruby to his lair. Maybe there were handcuffs that dangled from the ceiling. Or... maybe the costume was for _him_... it was hard to say with Whale.

Killian had smiled his flashing blade of a smile upon introduction, but other than, "Pleased to meet you, love," he'd remained quiet. He didn't seem tongue-tied... it was more of a role reversal. His eyes were calmly seductive, and it was Ruby who stood awkwardly, eyes ever bigger, caught in some sort of sassy, pirate tractor beam.

Sitting down, Belle said, "Isn't Ruby pretty?"

"Aye. She dresses like a wench."

Belle smiled at that... she supposed it was true. Long, sparkly earrings, those red lips.

"Are you matchmaking, love?" Killian asked.

With a shrug, Belle said, "I just thought you two might like each other. Maybe Ruby could distract you from being a homicidal fuckhead for a minute." She blushed deeply at her own swearing... such rudeness was usually reserved for playful talk with Rumpelstiltskin.

Killian's eyes grew wide for a moment. He recovered, and gave her a smirk. "Aren't you concerned I'll corrupt your friend in some way? Homicidal fuckheadedness and what-not."

"Oh, Ruby's a wolf. Cross her, and she'll rip your throat _right_ out." She waggled her fingers at her neck to imitate slithering, gushing gore.

".... Well. That was bracing."

Belle grinned, thinking that Rumpelstiltskin would have been pleased.

"You look so innocent, love. It's quite deceptive."

Belle bit her bottom lip and looked innocent, though not by design. She was considering. It made Killian give her _the look_ ; the one he'd given her over coffee that morning. Tilting her head, she said, "Don't do your insinuating, sexy-eye thing to _me_ , Killian."

"You think it's sexy, do you?"

"I'm pretty sure  _you_ think it is. But more to the point, Ruby being a wolf is just the beginning. You know if Rumpel gets overly tired of your ways, he'll make your lungs hop out of your chest. With his _mind_." She tapped the side of her head.

"You are just all kinds of disturbing, sweetheart."

Belle gave a frank look that said _you know I'm right_. To no one in particular, Killian said, "Spooky, little demon lover. Isn't that right, love? Got to have a little demon in your man."

When Belle didn't respond, he said, "Eh, love?" Leaning towards her, he pounded his fist on the table in a hammering that accelerated its pace rapidly. His eyes were almost possessed in their penetration as he deliberately evoked the headboard of her bed. Silverware rattled, water moved in perspiring glasses, and Belle felt heat rise to her face. The nerve of this guy.

He smiled at her, and she looked outside the window, trying to cool down. "Lungs." she said, not looking at him. "Mind."

"I've got it, love. Just teasing a bit."

Ruby slid into the booth beside Belle, looking more her confident self. "Hi, guys."

Killian turned his smile on her, and she faltered only briefly. Rallying, she pulled out a pad and said, "Hungry?"

" _Aye_."

Both women blushed. It was all in the tone, Belle decided. There was a voice-eyes-smile manipulation that Killian had clearly worked out, and it went creepily well with a sort of perverted fondling of his hook. Making her eyes rather large, she met his and mouthed, _lungs_. In her expression was an implied _fuckhead_.

　

 


	17. All of this Past

It was Ruby's idea to take Killian to the Rabbit Hole. She'd wanted Belle to come along, but when Belle glanced at Rumpelstiltskin, an amused brow that dripped sarcasm marked his expression. Looking first to Killian and then to Belle, he'd said, "Over my rotting corpse." He smiled; it was said pleasantly.

Belle supposed she could argue her own independence, but - in truth - she was relieved. A full day of Killian Jones was enough. It was hard work... navigating the constant innuendo, and yet realizing moments of stark honesty and even sweetness... Sometimes he brought out something maternal in her nature, only to turn on a dime. He could squelch the feeling in seconds flat, instead evoking adolescent insecurities. Occasionally, revulsion.

Certainly he was no child, but there was a boyishness about both he and Baelfire. It tried Belle in its alien nature and made her want to be alone with Rumpelstiltskin. To sit in his lap, and play the child, herself.

Baelfire took a rotting corpse approach to the idea of going out, as well. He was in hiding, for one. He wasn't opposed to drinking; but loud music, dancing, crowds... Sounding very much like his father, he'd smiled at Ruby and Killian, and said, "A high colonic holds more appeal. Chlamydia. _Sputum_ collection."

.... So Ruby and Killian went out into the night, Ruby the taller in her heels. It left Belle in an oddly familial setting; father, son and... Belle. And Sprets. She sat on the floor before the fire, trying to focus on a book while Egg played in her hair. Mostly, she listened to Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire, who each sipped Scotch and stared past her into the flames in the fireplace, becoming hypnotized with warmth; with alcohol and moving light.

They didn't say much, she thought. Was this the way of men? Even Rumpelstiltskin leaned towards a monosyllabic grunt, which she found unusual. In low voices, they murmured... the tones of their voices traveled into the crackle and soft roar of the fire, and fell about her like a blanket. Baefire one moment said, _I can't talk to Emma_. Another moment, _I'll talk to Emma_.

Unwavering, Rumpelstiltskin said, _Talk to her, Bae. You must_. But he also said, _When you're ready. There's no rush._

Belle looked up. There was such contrast between father and son... Baelfire so long-legged and sprawled in the overstuffed chair... faded jeans with a tear in one knee, a loose, flannel shirt, its blue so old and bare it was a silvery grey. Without his customary hat or hoodie, the top of his head was full of dark curls. It quirked the corner of her mouth.

Adjacent, on the love seat, Rumpelstiltskin was in his loosened up, night-time mode. It was still so much more neat and tidy than the younger men. ( _Was_ Killian younger?) He was down to shirt sleeves, trousers and socks; collar undone and sleeves rolled up. This was when Belle was drawn to him; moth to flame, bee to pollen. Her skin yearned to him, already feeling the touch of his hands along her back, her jaw. His warm body and the safety of his arms. For Baelfire's sake, she fought the yearning; her habitual seeking of heat.

Hoping to change the go-nowhere, circular nature of their conversation, she looked to Baelfire and asked, "What was it like, growing up?"

Though different, in ways Baelfire and Rumpelstiltskin seemed alike. Startlingly so. Their assessing glances; a sardonic pronouncement. Baelfire swirled the dark, amber liquid in his tumbler, catching light as his eyes caught Belle's. The Scotch had mellowed him; he was less loathe to look upon her.

"Which part?" he asked. "At home? Before or after the Dark One? Before of after becoming as worlds traveler?"

"Any of it." Belle said.

Looking at Baelfire, Rumpelstiltskin asked, "You can remember before the Dark One?"

Baelfire nodded. Eying Belle, he said, "You're from home; right?"

"Yes."

"Were you rich?" She nodded, and he said, "Yeah. I could tell."

Belle stiffened a bit, but relaxed again as realized there was no animosity in it. He said, "We weren't. We were even more poor than my current situation. But it was different."

Near Belle's ear, in a reverent whisper, Egg said, " _Bae talk_."

Belle raised a finger to stroke her oval belly, and Baelfire said, " I knew we were poor... My mother, she sure as hell knew." A soft grunt from Rumpelstiltskin. "But really, I was fine. We... all of the people in our village... we knew how to live, and take care of ourselves. It was more of a community than anything I've seen, since. We also knew how to do without... no one seemed to always _want_ , the way people do, now."

"Well. Milah." Rumpelstiltskin muttered, staring at the fire.

"Yeah, okay. My mother. I guess if she was here now, she'd need all the stuff... the clothes, gadgets, status. Ironic, huh Pop? Now you have all of it. Now you're Daddy Warbucks."

Belle was pretty sure the reference was lost on Rumpelstiltskin, who still looked at the flames that warmed her back and incubated Egg in her hair. What did he see in there, she wondered?

"What worlds did you go to?" she asked.

"Oh... here, at first. But overseas."

Rumpelstiltskin looked at him, liquor-soft eyes going shrewd once more.

"I was scared, but at that point I was so relieved to be away from magic. To be around people who didn't even recognize it as a real thing. But, I guess... I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if some little piece of magic got stuck to me. Like a burr, or one of your little, furry guys. Every turn I took seemed to trip me back into a situation where magic held the cards."

"So you left this world." Rumpelstiltskin said.

A brief flicker and meeting of dark eyes.... Baelfire's Puckish, Rumpelstiltskin's deep. Belle shivered, feeling the connection.

"For awhile." Baelfire said. "I don't know the real name of the place. The people there called it Neverland; it wasn't on any map. For as long as I was there, I stayed a boy. I mean... I grew on the inside, I changed. But I didn't grow up. It's where I met Killian."

Visibly blanching, Rumpelstiltskin swallowed the last of his Scotch. "More, son?" he asked, standing.

"You're not plying me with magic, are you?"

"Not other than the sort usually involved in spirits."

Baelfire handed over his glass. "Not drinking?" he asked Belle.

Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head, no.

"No, no." Baelfire admonished. "It is not to wrinkle the nose. This is a very elegant, single malt Scotch. Do you ever go out drinking? Get buzzed? Blitzed?"

Returning, handing Baelfire a refreshed tumbler, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Belle doesn't need to drink. She's spirit-led. She goes to tipsy places without even trying."

Belle blushed, looking down. The words made her feel a little childish.

"A dreamy, rich girl." Baelfire mused.

"Don't get ornery." Rumpelstiltskin murmured. "I didn't mean it like that. You don't know magic of Belle's sort."

"Maybe I do." Baelfire shrugged."Neverland was wild... a wild place. Magic was wild. In the trees, in the land. There were faeries there, but so different from home. _They_ were wild."

Poking her head out from Belle's hair, Egg said, " _I_ fae! I _wild_ fae."

It looked to Belle like Baelfire might have just stepped over the line of mellow and into an amiable tipsiness. Rumpelstiltskin still seemed soft, quiet. Baelfire grinned, and said, "Is that right?"

" _Is_ right."

Still smiling, Baelfire said, "Well. I never saw any of your type in Neverland, but there were faeries in war paint who had arrows and little bows. There were mermaids."

"Truly?" Belle asked.

"Yeah."

"And pirates." Rumpelstiltskin said.

"Yeah. Those. Mostly just Killian's crew, though. He'd found some ancient, not supposed to exist map... more of that sticky magic, I guess."

"He sought treasure."

"Well, he's a pirate, Pop."

Curious, Belle asked, "How does he manage, here? I mean... did he have a job, like you?" She couldn't begin to picture it. The leather, the flouncy ruffle at his cuff. His gay, porn star chest hair and glammed up eyes. She superimposed the uniform of a fast food establishment.

"Pirates don't believe in routine, structured work." Rumpelstiltskin said.

"You got that right." Baelfire agreed. "Over here.... How do I put it? Kill has had a way of becoming necessary to wealthy, mostly older women."

Rumpelstiltskin made a sneering face of disgust, seeming not at all surprised.

Ignoring it, Belle asked, "Did he come here with you?"

Nodding, Baelfire said, "Yeah. He helped me find a way out, then he stayed here with me. But I lose track of him every so often, when he's..."

"Whoring?" Rumpelstiltskin supplied.

"I guess. Something like that."

"What about Emma?" Belle asked. "You met her in the city? She knows Killian?"

"No... she never met him. We didn't meet in the city. We met further south, in Florida. We both wanted to be warm."

"What happened, Bae?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. "Why do you fear Emma will hate you?"

"Well..." Baelfire looked both uncomfortable, and perhaps on the verge of a hysterical giggle. He squirmed. "So... do you know Pinocchio?"

 


	18. Sensibilities

Killian crept into Baelfire's dark bedroom. He could smell the Scotch, and Baelfire's snore was rather thick. Probably a good thing.

He, himself, smelled strongly of rum, as well as some sort of sweet, cloying cigarette that everyone had been smoking at the Rabbit Hole. There was also a thick, mauve smoke they pumped into the darkly lit space, and it was sweet as well... dragon's blood, cherry-vanilla, some such. It was in his hair, just starting to go oily. On his skin, hot in the cold night.

Aiming for quiet, he moved carefully in the dark. He sat on the edge of the bed and pushed off his boots. He removed his hook, laying it on the bedside table. He stood and undressed, and just as he was pulling back the covers, the snoring stopped - just like that. As if by magic. Baelfire grumbled, " _Hell_ , no. If you're staying here again, get a pair of my sweatpants."

Muttering under his breath about sea-harpies and planks, Killian switched on the bedside lamp and followed Baelfire's pointing hand, risen from a lump of bedclothes, to a dresser.

"You're such a prude." he said, finding and stepping into the sweatpants, always an entertaining, hopping in place sort of event to manage one-handed, no hook. Snapping the elastic waistband to his flat belly, he said, "Happy?"

"Moderately."

"Brat."

Turning out the light, Killian crawled into bed, relieved to at last lay down his bones in the utterly unreal comfort of the Dark One's bed. Unholy, it was.

"You could've grabbed a t-shirt while you were at it."

"Are you afraid an errant nipple is going to escape and try to molest you, Bae?"

"Maybe. If it can find its way out of the forest of your chest hair."

"I'll try to curb the enthusiasm of me nipples."

Baelfire grunted, turning onto his stomach, and Killian settled in. He couldn't help it... he gravitated into the nest of warmth Baelfire had created, fuzzy with Scotch and comfortable with Baelfire's familiar scent.

"Come on, Kill. Don't nuzzle me with your _stump_."

"Big baby. So many rules, mate. 'Wear pants, mind your stump.' You're like a little, old lady."

Baelfire said "Mmph," annoyed but drunkenly in and out of a half-sleep. Content, Killian continued to nuzzle. Heat radiated from beneath Baelfire's soft t-shirt. "Besides," he added, "it's your father you can thank for the stump."

"Really? Won't you tell me the story, Kill? I don't think I've heard it."

"Son of Evil."

"Vapid slut. Speaking of. How was your night out with the hot chick?"

Killian rolled to his belly as well, obligingly turning his left, stump-side away from Baelfire. His right hand, intact and not outgrown of a toddler's tendency to grab, found its way into Baelfire's hair. Killian toyed with thick curls between fingers and thumb, taking a tactile comfort from it.

"Nice." he said. "Good. She rather aggressively wanted me to dance, though."

Baelfire gave a think snort. "Did you succumb to Boogie Fever?"

"I remained immune. I think it disappointed the lass. And you, Bae? Did you see the boy?"

Baelfire made a sound of assent.

"Well?"

Turning his head on his pillow to face Killian, he said, "He's gotta be mine, Kill."

Killian moved his hand to the base of Baelfire's skull, then to his back. He stroked up and down, both to soothe, and for motivations more personal. He knew Baelfire well enough to know that, a little buzzed, he would accept such touching. He might like it.

"What will you do?" he asked.

"Talk to his mother. What else can I do?"

"Scared, mate?"

"Jesus, Kill. You have no idea."

"I think I do. You'll be alight."

Edging a little closer, he pressed his forehead against Baelfire's shoulder as he stroked his warm, troubled back.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Baelfire's eyes opened; the bedroom was suffused in an unearthly shade of blue. The sun was barely risen, and he was in a warm cave of blankets, created by his body and Killian's. The ear that was exposed to the air was cold, and he felt rather loathe to introduce the rest of his body to anything that wasn't of the cave of bedclothes. Plus, Killian was laying almost on top of him, legs tangled. He'd have to wrestle his way out; and where was the motivation? He wasn't feeling in a great rush to scamper off and give Emma a heart attack. _Remember me? I think I might have left something important with you..._

Something had woken him, and he struggled with it for a few, foggy moments. He'd never really been one to wake, stretch and greet the new day with a clear mind and rested energy. Even as a boy, when those things were supposedly innate... he'd always had to approach the reality of day with a sort of caution. The testing and rejecting of the air with finger or toe.... negotiating an acceptance of getting up and moving if he could keep his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. If he could remain, just a little bit, in the land of sleep.

There were routines, rituals; things put in place so as to face it all. Here we go... again. Didn't we just do this?

The back of his mind, perhaps not fully emerged from a dark and mostly lost dream, conjured a little sound. A softly remembered sound, not quite a click. The turning of a doorknob. There it was, he had it. He'd heard the very quiet sound of the door... maybe even a soft tapping on its surface before it hushed open over the wood floor; and he'd had the sense of someone outside, looking in on his dream. Just as quietly, the door closed. That time there really was a _click_ ; that's what had drawn him more solidly from the deep.

It hadn't distracted Killian, who was heavy, now... squashing him into the bed. There was a disturbance of protrusion and insistence; a sneaky heat at his thigh. Killian dick; it wouldn't do. The start of drool on his back. _There_ was some motivation. It also nudged him into an awareness of his bladder... now more wakeful, it had unpleasant things to say about a pirate's weight bearing down, the press of Baelfire's pelvis to the bed.

"Ommph.." he wriggled out from under Killian. In spite of his bladder and Killian's morning wood, he felt reluctant to leave the bed. He glanced back at it with true longing. Goodbye cave. Goodbye warm-bodied, furry bed-mate. In the night, Killian had become a furnace.

With a sigh, he donned the flannel shirt of the day before, now wearing it as sort of a robe, hugging himself for warmth. As quiet at the door as the door-opener of his half-dream, he left and padded down the hall, marveling once more at a bathroom he could probably live in. A mini-fridge, a microwave, maybe. He'd be set.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the kitchen, his father was unbelievably refreshed and spiffy. Cripes. _Evil_. _Had_ to be magic. He looked to be showered and shaved, hair mostly dried, sunlight bouncing off of the silver threading its wispy, fluffy ends. He was dressed, ready for the day, trailing a soapy scent. He even wore a tie; a jacket was draped over a kitchen chair.

Baelfire stared, knowing himself to be Igor-like; non-verbal, for the most part. Lurching. He was upright. He'd managed a long and deeply gratifying piss. This was the extent of his accomplishments thus far.

His father handed him a cup of coffee, but was quiet. He also didn't meet Baelfire's eyes, and after a few days of outright wooing, it felt strange. Baelfire murmured thanks, accepting the cup and pulling out a chair with his foot. He sat down heavily, taking deep sips, letting the brew get into his brain and his bloodstream. He held the cup close to his face, feeling the heat and basking in a little tendril of steam. Little by little, he became aware.

Sprets moved quietly about. One sat on the kitchen table, no bigger than the salt and pepper shakers... he thought it was the one called Gizzard. He was eating... something. Match-heads? He ate from a tiny, cut crystal spoon-rest, or something. What could such a wee, little dish be used for? Other Sprets were - almost literally - coming out of the woodwork. He suspected that yet others were in bed with Belle, staying warm. He thought of how the little guys loved Killian, and smiled. Maybe they would find their way into bed with him and nest in his chest hair.

His awareness extended to include more nuanced things, such as mood. His father was in one. He stood, drinking his coffee while staring out of the window, and -now Baelfire realized - determinedly not speaking. A tension came off of his back, and suddenly Baelfire was a child again. It was that quick. He'd disappointed his father in some way... hell, he was probably disappointing him right this instant, with his lazy morning ways and aura of grime.

But... _no_. This dynamic didn't get to happen. Rumpelstiltskin hadn't the right. He'd given it up in favor of magic... he'd traded family for power.

Bristling, yet lacking any real substance or context, Baelfire said, "What's up, Pop?"

It was like watching a cat. A stand-offish cat who knew Baelfire was right there, speaking to it, but had decided he was beneath its sphere of acknowledgement. Just like watching a cat's ears, the shifting of its whiskers while its back was turned, Baelfire watched a subtle shift of muscle in his father's back, at his shoulders. A barely noticed flex in arms that were lifted in a semi-relaxed stance, hands holding his cup.

Rumpelstiltskin still stared out the window, but asked, "Why is the pirate in your bed, Bae?"

Oh. _Click_ went the door. Baelfire wasn't at his quickest in the morning. He took a sip of coffee and asked, "Is that what's got your panties in a twist?"

Turning to face Baelfire, Rumpelstiltskin said, "My...? _Nothing's_ twisted."

"Oh, I'd argue that."

"Tell me, son. Why?"

Breaking into a grin, Baelfire leaned back in his chair. He felt expansive. He might pontificate. He crossed one ankle at the opposite knee and ignored the sad and naked sight of his big toe peeping out of his sock.

"You're funny, old man. You take on the Dark One's curse, you kill my mother, you let me drop into nothingness, but.... you're _testy_ with me because you think that - maybe - I _might_ be fucking Killian?"

Rumpelstiltskin's face darkened. " _He_ killed her."

"Nope."

"As good as."

"No, Pop. _Not_ as good as. _You_ killed her, and until you can at least acknowledge that much, I don't want to hear it."

A struggle ensued on Rumpelstiltskin's face, and Baelfire watched with interest. Would he just admit to it, already? But... no. Rumpelstiltskin said, " _Why_ is that shite in your bed?" He snarled a bit. The tether of civility loosened quickly.

"You know... for _some_ reason, he's nervous about sleeping alone, under your roof. Weird, right?"

"He should be."

"Yeah? Then you shouldn't be upset that he's in my room."

"I'm not _upset_." He spat the word, as if it was reserved for hysterical ladies and the hyper-sensitive.

"You _seem_ upset."

Rumpelstiltskin turned away again, and Baelfire thought he might hurl his coffee cup into the sink. He braced for it... powdery shards all over, exploding back up into his father's face. It didn't happen. He watched his father place the cup into the sink with extreme care, delicate precision. Then he gripped the counter with both hands. White knuckles, red fingertips. Once more, his father's back was speaking to him. It spoke of tension, confusion and loss, and Baelfire fought like hell against his own, overdeveloped empathy. He'd inherited it from his father, but that was before the Dark One.

"So. _Are_ you?" Rumpelstiltskin's voice was a quiet rasp. He turned to Baelfire, arms folded across his middle, well dressed bum leaning against the counter.

"... Am I....?"

His father looked wretched. He visibly paled. Voice not quite a growl, he said, " _Fucking_ the pirate."

"For crying out loud."

He should say 'yes'. Just for spite. He should say he'd never had it so good, and he and Killian were going to adopt Henry and run away to a wheat-grass commune in Southern California. They would raise Henry to question authority and have regular, dental check-ups. The three of them would consume only humanely harvested vegetables.

 _It's raining men_ , he should sing. Or, maybe more appropriate to current events; _We are family_. I got _all_ my sisters with me.

"Are you kidding me with this? No Pop, not that it's any of your business. It happens that I'm straight, though I can see how you might wonder as I'm not currently practicing. Meanwhile, you are _devout_. A zealot. I swear, Mister Wizard or whatever, you're still just this old world guy... and kind of a homophobe."

Clearly relieved, marginally relaxed, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I'm not phobic about..."

"Homos?"

Sitting down at the table, Rumpelstiltskin said, "But he's always all over you, Bae. Hanging on you, arm around you. He was sleeping _on_ you. Why?"

"He's my friend." Baelfire began to feel a little closed off; less inclined to pontificate. Things _were_ different with Killian, and that's just the way it was. It wasn't the old man's business. _None_ of his life was, actually.

"I admit," Rumpelstiltskin said, wearing a considering frown. "I've never really had male friends. Associates, enemies... but most close companions were women. Not that I was touchy with them the way the pirate is with you. Well, maybe one..."

"Let it go, Pop. It's just Killian. It's how he is."

"So... the man you describe to me as selling himself to rich women is a cuddly sort with his male friends? Is this a sailor thing?"

"Who knows?" Baelfire consulted the ceiling.

"Do you think it's a usual course of friendship, Bae?"

"I have no idea. He doesn't bother me. Okay? It is what it is... Killian needs a lot of attention."

"Why?"

"Well, I'm just postulating, here, but.... Gosh. I think his father _abandoned_ him." Baelfire's face was sad and horrified.

Rumpelstiltskin's eyes blazed, and he hissed, "As did mine. And I'm not some omnisexual, leather hided, rum soaked gigolo."

Baelfire snorted at the notion, then added, "And besides which, you are perfectly adjusted in every way."

"And _you're_ not like Hook, either."

"Maybe not. But you don't really know me. Do you? Guess who does?"

Rumpelstiltskin lowered his head to the table and banged it there a few times. Baelfire felt sympathetic. He often did the same, himself. He reached out and patted his father on his freshly washed head. Hair just beginning to fall away from comb marks.

"I'm sorry, Pop. I know it bothers you to hear it, but he took care of me. He fed me, kept me from getting killed. He looked out for me."

A retching sound issued from Rumpelstiltskin's throat, and his hand moved to his belly.

"Are you gonna hurl?" Baelfire asked. He should laugh, he thought. Point and laugh, like his father did to Killian. But the physical distress made him feel bad.

"Maybe."

"The sink might be better than the table."

"Thank you, son."

Sitting upright, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I feel as if I should drink bleach." His hand still rested, protectively, at his belly.

"... So as _not_ to hurl?"

"To scrub my insides. Bae... Yes, it would surprise me if you were..."

"A homo? Gay? Queer? A _faerie_?"

Gizzard, who had been silently watching the exchange, frowned at Baelfire.

"Yes. Right. And I dare say it would surprise Miss Swan. But honestly, I wouldn't care. You'd have whatever support you needed from me."

Baelfire suppressed what he felt was inappropriate laughter. A small snicker escaped. Unbidden, a picture arrived of an all-tux wedding, his father walking him down the isle, everyone wearing tasteful, rainbow lapel pins. Proud papa. Some Ken-doll person awaited him, beaming. How was it, he wondered, that he came to be the _bride_ in this vision?

His father said, "It's the _pirate_ that bothers me. First your mother, then _you_? Ugh... I feel ill." The retching sound happened again. His father really did look a bit green.

Rather amazed, Baelfire said, "You cut a bloody path through the Enchanted Forest, but Killian Jones trips up your delicate sensibilities?"

" _Evil_ doesn't mean we have to be animals, Bae."

"Killian's not an animal."

"Oh, _ho_. Seduction of mother and son?"

Shaking his head, Baelfire said, "You're insane. You know it; don't you? Tell me you see that, in the big picture of becoming the Dark One and all that it has meant, Killian sleeping in my bed is just... nothing. It's not even a blip. It doesn't matter."

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the table. He was stubbornly, poutingly silent.

"We could have a drinking club." Baelfire suggested. " A 'Men abandoned by their fathers' thing. We could get pissed and share our feeling and shit. There could be shouting and weeping, and amnesiac denial when sober."

Rolling his eyes, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I think I'd prefer the pirate and I just continue to try and kill one another. Like civilized people."

Baelfire gave his father a genuine smile. "Yeah. You're perfectly well adjusted, Pop."

　

　

　

　

　

 


	19. Dionysus

Baelfire sang in the shower. Belle found it so amusing... sometimes she heard Rumpelstiltskin hum a little tune while soaping up... other times he was all business. Get clean, get out, get on with it. Apply armor of snark and take it on the road.

But Baelfire was like a baying dog. Sprets ran for cover, wondering at the slightly off-key, mournful, hound howling that issued from the echoing acoustics of the lavishly steamy bathroom.

"... _I'm gonna lay my weary head on some lonesome railroad iron_..."

She tidied up in the kitchen, occasionally brushing up against Rumpelstiltskin. She scented him, nose to his shoulder; his warmth, an opiate, caramel-touched heat, permeating the laundered weave of his shirt; the soap and hard water lingering at his skin. In return, his arm came around her, his mouth kissed her head.

"... _let the two-nineteen train ease my troubled mind_...."

Pressing close, Belle said, "Your son is singing about having his head run over by a train."

"Well. Boys, you know..."

Belle didn't know, but felt she was slowly gaining a belated education. Whatever it was "boys" did, it was not quite the path of Rumpelstiltskin's life. The traits, experiences that created a man of magic seemed somehow removed from the constant insult and tussle she observed in Baelfire and Killian. Not girlish, but different.

" _Trouble in mind, I'm blue. But I won't be blue alwaAAAYYYSS-HEY_!" Baelfire's howling song broke off into a yelp... That would be Killian, Belle thought.

She felt Rumpelstiltskin tense, and she automatically moved her hand to his back. Though it seemed Baelfire continued to be surprised, Belle had learned in no time that Killian liked to intrude upon his shower. He crept into the bathroom, undressed quietly, then flung back the shower curtain. Surprise. Belle had never seen such a mess of water everywhere and sodden towels. Startling jokes about slippery soap and bending over... Was _that_ what "boys" did?

Rumpelstiltskin hated it... she could feel a dangerous growl, a vibration not heard, move along his spine. They were going to have find somewhere else for Killian to stay, before Rumpelstiltskin's loyalty to Baelfire's wishes was eroded away by his hatred of Killian.

Egg, on the other hand, went into a frenzy. It seemed she was fascinated by Killian's body, specifically when he was soaking wet and water made his generous body hair look like flowing streams. Belle wondered what Ruby would think of that, as well as Killian's level of comfort with Baelfire.

Hopping, fluttering away from Belle, Egg squeaked, "Kill-ann!" Down the hallway she buzzed, and popped through the bathroom door as if it wasn't there.

Glancing at Belle, a stare down the nose, Rumpelstiltskin said, "She's _your_ bugaboo."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emma was at the counter at Granny's, talking to Ruby, when Belle came in, trailing a... what would she call it? Did Storybrooke have a Renaissance Faire? Or a gay bar?

Ruby gave a little gasp, and whispered, "Emma! There he is!"

Ah. The pretty boy. He was talking to Belle's back as they walked, both a hand and an unlikely looking hook raised and gesturing. He said, "What I want to know is; In the politics of this world, are we considered immigrants?"

Belle seemed to be ignoring him, or she was just her usual, dreamy, little self. She approached the counter and smiled. "Hi, Emma." she said. She leaned in to give Ruby a hug. The crow-boy stopped talking and looked up, his eyes a startling, and - yes - pretty blue. Dark-ringed, like nefarious sorts populating Anne Rice novels. Or skulking around in ads for men's cologne.

"Emma?" he said. He seemed almost spooked.

Well. That was sort of...

"Yes?"

"Oh." Belle said, "Emma, this is Killian Jones. He came back with us when we collected... Rumpel's son."

Killian Jones couldn't seem to stop staring at her. It was unnerving, and also just goofy. There was so much flounce to his shirt and glitter to his jewelry. And _make-up_ on his eyes. Who _was_ this guy?

He smiled at her, and said, "I've heard a lot about you, Emma."

"You have?" she looked to Belle in question.

"Aye." Killian said. "You know, savior and all."

"Oh. Right." It made sense, in the nonsense world that was Storybrooke. Her belly told her he wasn't being entirely truthful, but it was too early in the day to go questioning someone as flamboyant as Gold's new houseguest. Regina's brand of flamboyance was plenty.

"Where _is_ Gold's son? she asked. "Are we ever going to lay eyes on him?"

Weirdly, Killian Jones looked away, a ruddy, little blush coloring his cheek, pretty over dark scruff.

Belle said, "You will. He and Rumpel have a lot to catch up on."

Tugging on the ruffle of his shirt, Belle led her boy-toy to a booth. He smiled back at Ruby, who gave a soft squeak.

" _See_?" she demanded of Emma. "Is he not...? _Gods_. He's so..."

Nodding, placating, Emma said, "Yeah. He's alright. In a sullied, besmirched sort of way."

Ruby leaned bodily on the counter; it bore her weight, and her feet rose up behind her, legs crossed at the ankle. He face was a tragic-comic mask of desire. She couldn't contain herself. "He's so pretty, I wanna _die_." she keened.

"Well, that's not good." Emma smiled.

Righting herself, Ruby said, "I can't believe you don't see it."

"Oh, I see it, Ruby. He's just not my type, is all. He's a little flashy. I wonder where he _shops_..."

"Heck, Emma. That's just _clothes_. He can take those _off_."

Emma smiled again, indulging the hot little wave of horniness that Killian Jones inspired in Ruby, who was so often uninspired by the locals. Still, she wondered if Ruby would be so taken if Killian Jones turned up clean-shaven, bare-eyed and wearing golfing attire. She could almost picture it....

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It's a fine day, Butterbean." Killian said. "What shall we do with it, my little keeper? My woman of leisure... Don't you ever hang out in spas or nap in tanning booths like the other women of leisure? You're quite pale, love."

Belle blinked. "What did you call me?"

"A woman of leisure?"

"No."

"My keeper?"

Belle shook her head.

Smiling, Killian said, "Butterbean?"

Tilting her head, Belle said, "Now I'm a bean?"

"It just came out, sweetheart. You're such a wee thing... I could fit you in my pocket."

"Hardly." Belle harrumphed a bit, thinking of Sprets who liked to hang around in pockets.

She supposed she _was_ a woman of leisure, though, as the town liked to surmise as her relationship exchange with Rumpelstiltskin. But she was a woman with Sprets. With a Dark One. What on earth could she make of a tanning booth?

Looking at her menu, she said, "Well, first there are bird chores."

"Delightful."

"Usually I help Rumpel at the shop, but that's probably a bad idea."

"It depends on how adventurous you are, sweetheart."

It was a different thing, being someone's keeper. Belle wasn't used to having to keep someone else busy... She couldn't very well introduce him to her world of dreams, of sliding into another state of being... to the places where Sprets come from. Rumpelstiltskin could sometimes follow her there, but that was different. He had worlds of his own.

She had a picture in her mind of settling Killian down on the floor, before the television, supplied with one of Granny's "adult" coloring books and a package of brightly colored markers. She mused over the vision, the picture of Killian's concentration, beginning to smile a bit to herself.

Killian, in a soft way, smiled back at her. "People really don't know you, do they?"

It was an odd thing for him to say, Belle thought. Even more odd, it was correct. She looked at him, wondering how to respond. Granny's door jingled open, and she was distracted by the arrival of Henry. The little boy made a beeline for Emma, and blushed to have Ruby tousle his hair. Raised by Regina to a certain standard of presentation, he re-settled his dark hair, still blushing.

"There's Emma's son." Belle said.

It was like a Spret goosed Killian's arse. Or said 'boo!' at his ear. He jumped a little, then shifted to look. His eyes were wide, uncharacteristically vulnerable. After a moment of undisguised staring, he breathed, " _Gods_."

"Are you okay?" Belle asked. he seemed... almost hurt. She didn't know what to make of it.

"Aye. Well, the boy has his eyes. Doesn't he?"

Looking closer, Belle smiled. "He does."

"He looks like he'll soon be approached for recruitment to a school for young wizards and witches."

That made Belle giggle. Henry _did_ look like a candidate... but she, herself, was excited by such a notion. Lessons on broom-flying and herbology. A library full of rare books and secrets. An owlery. Transfiguration. She nursed a little fantasy that Rumpelstiltskin was her professor, (mostly likely teaching Dark Arts, rather than Defense Against), and perhaps she'd misbehaved. Maybe she had to stay after class... he was quite stern. It made her miss the Dark Castle and the Deadlands with a surprising wave of homesickness.

"You slip away just like _that_. Don't you, Butterbean?"

Belle returned, a blush coloring her way back. "I'm not used to being so mindful of others." she murmured. "I guess you're used to being around people all the time. The city was so crowded."

Turning away from the creche of Emma and Henry, Killian said, "No... it was easy to be alone in the city. But, captain of a ship? That's another thing. I'm _very_ accustomed to being mindful of others."

"Here comes Ruby." Belle smiled.

Killian smiled as well, and Belle marveled at the turning on of the charm. It was like a switch, and it made her realize that he'd become fairly relaxed in her presence. He turned his smile upon her with regularity, but it was a different matter, altogether, from the liquid-eyed magnetism he cooked up for Ruby. Belle, fascinated, watched his expression fall into character. He was, to a certain degree, an actor.

"Hello, love." he said to Ruby, before she could speak to say _Hello_ or ask for their order. Her eyes showed the thrill of being on the receiving end of his rough-edged voice, made into a purr for her sake.

_Geez_.

He took Ruby's hand and kissed it, just above her knuckles. As he did so, his eyes looked up at her from beneath dark brows and crow-ragged hair, and Belle became aware of the females of various species, for miles around. Through waves of energy springing from Killian, they all experienced swooning devastation. Be they animal, insect, plant, Spret... they clutched at uterine parts and were confused as to whether they longed for sex or a baby, or both. Those living cyclical lives came into season; self-pollinators came to fruition. Killian, for a moment in time, was the embodiment of Dionysus, and a world of females went maenad-mad. Love starved and oddly bloodthirsty.

When Ruby left, Belle eyed Killian, deeply suspicious.

"What is it, Butterbean?"

"Are you..." she searched her Lacey vernacular. "Are you _playing_ her?"

His eyes teased. She wouldn't get a real answer. He said, "Harmless flirtation. She seemed to like it."

"Well, don't hurt her, Killian. Remember what I said about the ripping out of your throat."

He smiled at her, and she was relieved to feel that he'd turned it off... whatever it was he revved up, seemingly at will. Now it was just Killian, beloved of Sprets and soon to let a kestrel perch on his hook. Errant, cocky boy who had earned the Dark One's wrath, and who returned it. The god of bloody-handed love was gone.

　

　

　

 


	20. Spirit World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be fooled by the title. Author has completely fallen off the wagon and caved into the ever present lure of the magical, the dreamy and the weird way in which she connects those things to smut. Gratuitous magic, dreaminess and smut. Pretty ribbon and glittery things. One must pity her; there isn't a support group, or even a name that she knows of, for her particular affliction.

 

It began in dream, in sleep.

As Rumpelstiltskin was thrown into his past by Baelfire, his son's presence bittersweet, Belle found herself wandering in her own past.

How had she not seen how alone she'd been? She always told herself she'd been loved, cared for. Certainly she was cared for. She always told herself she was a strange girl, a _strange lass_ , Killian said, and she didn't overly question it. The strangeness had always been, long before Rumpelstiltskin and magic... it led her to those things. So, she thought, she must have been born, thus.

But in dream, she saw a somewhat different picture. In her aloneness, her imagination ran wild. Imaginary tales, play, friends... (maybe some of the friends weren't altogether imaginary; so... _that_ was strange). She thought she'd always been a quiet girl, but now invisible, dream Belle watched small, dream Belle. She saw a chatterbox. She saw traces of Lacey, little bodied and big-eyed, hungry for attention. She saw small Belle carry on about her imaginings, and her father - a wall of a man - grew angry. (In her memory, adults were indulgent of her. If she said some fanciful thing, they smiled in a knowing way and said, "Oh, yes?" She'd known, even very young, that they didn't believe her. She'd felt free to tell lavish tales, and to be the subject of their amusement. She smiled with them, to say - I know we're just playing, here.)

But here came dream father, and he said she was _lying_. And what's more; _spying_. Her father spoke in rhyme, yet made her feel doomed. Weirdly exposed and very wrong, even though she wanted to argue that everyone else was in on it. How could she help it if he was a little slow?

She was punished... for lying. For hiding and watching others, and adding what she learned to her imaginative play. Her father was a ruler, and -not wishing to rock the boat - other adults, even her mother had begun to brush her away. Her mother's voice, impatient, "Go play, Belle. Go find a way to be useful." No one wanted to encourage her to make things up. To spin her yarn; little did they know what a precursor _that_ would be.

Invisible Belle felt sad... and indignant. She wasn't _born_ quiet; she'd learned to be so. To disguise who she really was. Maybe it was just the way of the world, part of growing up. A certain amount of shame was required to temper the beasts that are children.

Her insides hadn't changed, though; only her behavior. She embraced, fully, an unpopular notion of _not_ living in the present, in the moment. Instead, she secretly dwelled in the past, in the future... in dream and in stories. Sometimes even in the lives of others, or the lives of forest animals, of trees. It was a form of protection, shielding herself from others, who were hard and unyielding, while she was soft... soaking them up. Taking them on. Losing herself.

Fretful, sensing a bearing down of stormy skies, her dream shifted. _She_ shifted, and she _felt_ it.... malleable dream-magic came to shuddering life, and small Belle became a crow. She could feel it... a new lightness of being, the stretch and pull of wings. Roadways of air, invisible rivers bore her up and directed her path, and her sight was strangely focused, different. She gulped the air. She heard her raucous call, felt the rattle of it in her chest.

She was done with this world, she thought. She looked at her father's palace with a bold contempt. The word 'palatial' seemed meaningless and overblown, and it came out as _'Caw!',_ followed by a trilling-up of G's and R's.

With a whoosh and a swoop, she dove into air. She glided, wind stirring up feathers at her neck and the tips of her dark wings, hiding rainbows of colors. Over trees... and then into the trees... it was easy to feel the open spaces between branches and weave herself into them.

She saw him... _there he was_. She must be small no longer, for she recognized her lover. He caused a tremble in her belly and an uncertain feeling seeped into her magic. From the ground, he raised his arm and said, "Get your raggedy, black arse down here, dearie."

She circled. She wheeled over the tips of fir trees, teasing him, making him smaller. Then she found her air-river, her cushioned stream, and approached him with a heart-in-her-throat plunge. She cut through air... it was now a solid thing to her, it had substance. It made a roaring noise as she dove through it, and then came to a halt; a precise and gentled landing in which the air whispered words all around her. She stood on his arm, trying not to dig her strong, sharp toes into his flesh.

"Hello, pretty." he smiled at her.

He pet her, and she ducked her head. She loved him best of all, and opened her long beak.... tongue out and taking in his scent as breath, at the roof of her mouth. She tasted him.

... She shifted again in her dream, and was Goblin Queen Belle, feral and wild, she of the many odd, ghostlike children who roamed the forests, who emerged from the sea and stalked over the plains, the Deadlands of swaying grasses and cold stone. She was very fertile.

She sat cross-legged on the ground in perfect imitation of True Belle, if such a woman existed independent of the others. But she dressed differently, in her low cut, cinched-up dress of crimson, it's hem ragged and sleeves edged in lace, it's bodice and skirt shining with a gleam of blood-red, satin ribbon. She was bare-legged, barefoot beneath.

She drew circles and spirals on the ground with her fingertip. She felt herself drawn into the patterns, pulled, sliding and drifting along dark roads. Sometimes she was whipped back up, into the air; but now flying on a broom, trailing a soft, jingle-jangle of silver bells. Sometimes she walked on the ground, a star-filled sky above and shadowy, rustling foliage all around. She moved, she anticipated.

Her mind spun stories that distracted her. There was Chloe, in a patch of sunlight, napping in seclusion from Sprets. Her back legs stretched, toes close to her face. Pink-toed cat stretch; furry ballerina.

Goblin Queen Belle sensed more than saw that Baelfire and Killian were nearby. They felt so different... different from one another and different in the world of the chthonic queen from the world in which they were flesh and blood.

Baelfire... his name was so pretty. He was well named, and Belle knew he was named by an angry woman who was trying to look forward. She was _stuck_ , but still she yearned. For a time, her yearning took the shape of Baelfire.

His name tasted of burning leaves, and the autumn smoke they sent into a muted, blue sky. Fields set afire as the year turned, to be fed by glistening ash. His name was ashes, and it was the sun, warm on her back, climbing to its peak in air that grew ever more cool. She gazed at the blaze of star, feeling a familiar sadness. Crepe myrtles still flowered and frilled like young brides, but berries dried in masses on the same limbs, the bark smooth and skeletal. Bones. Amidst the flowers were turning leaves of deep red.

This was Baelfire, felt in dream. He was late autumn, his dark eyes soft with an acceptance of change. He could feel endings; he knew about doors. He could feel beginnings, too... but his eyes were open, had seen and learned. Cycles... death. It would happen, again and again. Ashes were in his hair, fire lit his eyes, glowed on his face. He was strong, and yet a soft, feeling thing. Warm. Like his father, he smelled of fire, of wood-smoke.

She felt Killian as such a different creature from Baelfire, and it startled her to feel that he was drawn, a moth to fatal flame, to be near Baelfire. She knew they were connected, friends, but it felt different. It _hurt_. It was a hurt she recognized as her own... a compression in her chest, a pull low in her belly as she yearned for Rumpelstiltskin.

Killian wore Prince of Darkness clothing, eyes raccooned in black. The Goblin Queen saw this, and yet when he smiled, she felt her throat constrict with longing, wistfulness... nostalgia. Longing for what once was. It was not her own longing... or rather, it _was_ , but it was for her Goblin lover. It was for a Deadlands that had never been dead for her. What she felt was a wave of Killian's longing. He was not accepting, as was Baelfire. Belle was connected... she had empathy for a man her lover hated, and it sent troubled ripples through her dream. Even in the sky, she could see a ghostly image of Rumpelstiltskin's animal, bejeweled eyes, looking upon her in judgment.

She shrugged. True Belle might feel the glare, but the Goblin Queen had left such things behind when _child_ became _crow_. She loved Rumpelstiltskin, he'd fathered all of her children. But she was her own.

Killian rippled her dream, too, changing the land. As he seemed to fall into step behind Baelfire in life, so did it feel in dream. Baelfire's autumn gave way to deepening winter, to black water; and there was Killian. Belle felt as she did when the season's shifted, when the wind picked up and the air was cold. The moon was a far off ghost in an opaque, steel-wool sky. Black and bare branches criss-crossed on white snow, and land melded to sky. She felt homesick. She felt a lull of sleep, the dens of small animals; but also an urgency born of dark days, a deeper time when the moon shed down the scent of ice and of still, cold and sleeping soil.

Behind Baelfire, the splash of late zinnias, a low, gold and molten sun dripping fire through branches of turning leaves, stood his dark brother in a prickly crown of holly, leaves deep green and glossy, bright red berries like drops of blood. Killian was a man carved out by love goddesses of old, but those goddesses had filled him with their own sense of loss, their own need, their own ache and swell. And then they died. He walked alone in a land of white; he sailed the surface of dark water, feeling what lurked beneath. Trying to hide from it.

... Then there was Rumpelstiltskin.

Goblin Queen Belle felt him as she felt no other. She could feel him in the land, as she felt the presence of the younger men. But he was outside of it; or within herself. He moved in her mind, as ghostly and yet real as her children. She knew him as a man possessed... the man colored the demon as the demon colored the man, both trying to outrun sorrows. Sometimes he went a bit mad. In one aspect he wore Baelfire's colors; in another he wore Killian's.

So often in dream he was the goblin. He kept returning to her this way, with pale, moss and bark colored skin that glinted with copper. With sumptuous wardrobe and tight, well-worn leather. He smelled of earth and leaves, of rain and sweet scented smoke. He filled her up, both man and magic, and her over-rode her every, meandering thought.

She walked dark paths, trailing the invisible ghost of his son. He found her there and he showed a broad smile of dark teeth... and her yearning was such that she knew it would never be sated. _Watch out_ , his ghost son said. _He's still the sad man from long ago, from here and now. Don't be fooled by the imp._

Belle whispered, _I know_.

Still, he liked games. He liked to play. He was more free to do so as the imp, and he made her an invitation to be his playmate. She accepted. He was always ready to step from darkness, to melt into the reality of himself, filled with magic. He lifted his hands to her; _Clearly magic_ , he grinned. _Because... look how sparkly!_

The imp could also be naked, feral and hard. It rattled her so... that he could be hard, just from her scent. He scented her in the night, different from the smell of the road, the moon, the green and whispering trees... browning stalks of yarrow and rabbit tobacco. He scented _Belle_ , and _woman_ , honing in on her sex, her openness to him, because that was his nature. He hunted her blood. The thought excited her; his animal nature. His impish but powerful body and the blood rushing through it, filling and suffusing his cock at the very thought of her, drifting on the breeze; their joining. His playmate, whom he missed as he missed him.

Her dream showed her things, made her feel. Rumpelstiltskin kissing her, wet lips, wicked tongue. Invisible scruff of face and jaw scratching at her, lips trailing behind and softening every injury he did her in the wilderness. Rumpelstiltskin's fingers digging into her flesh and tongue laving, wolfish, between her legs, driving her mad and seeking - so desperately - to find and taste and sate the desire, the core of her, to which he was ever drawn. Runpelstiltskin fucking her... the hard, velvety feel of his cock, the mushroomed, swollen head of it sliding into her, his mouth on hers, then at her ear, whispering, _oh, gods... oh, fuck... it feels so good. You feel so good._

Goblin Queen Belle became a ghost on the circled and spiraled paths of her own making... she tried to hold onto thoughts, so visceral and tangible, of Rumpelstiltskin. A path went back to small Belle, but she didn't want to return. She knew who her family was.

She wasn't ready to abandon the dream spirits of Baelfire and Killian. Who would they all be when worldly and civilized once more? When they were creatures unto themselves, partly inaccessible and cut off from the intensity of her feelings; from the vision and perception of the Goblin Queen. The queen had made a straight path, as the crow flies, from childhood to the entity she now was; her voyeurism was unapologetic. She was a queen unencumbered by nearly all but desire.

She was a loner, as was Rumpelstiltskin. Sneaky voices tried to pull him away from her... they told her that, yes, he was a loner as she was. But she was _alone_. She isolated within her own head. Others could not know her, just as the crow boy said.

 _No_ , she told the voices, and with her magic she reassembled the scraps of dream that the voices had torn apart. She remade him, Rumpelstiltskin, and watched in triumph as his sly smile formed and he came to know himself. He was eager, and she welcomed him inside herself.

To the dream voices, she said, _I'm keeping him._

　

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... No, we're not quite done, here.


	21. The Flesh Delights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've heard it said that all magic comes with a price. There exist some who are very willing to pay.

Rumpelstiltskin moaned upon waking. Arousal was a hot and moving live wire, a confusing thing within his body. It surged in his bloodstream and twitched at his cock. Witchy fingers caressed over his alarmingly full balls and walked the insinuating, feathery trail of hair that led from his navel to the trembling landscape of his pelvis.... a shallow valley between and below ridges of hipbones... inexplicably, an area that had become molten and ardent, desperate and on dangerous edge. Even his nipples, lips and fingertips felt alert, anxious.

_What?_

He felt as if he couldn't move without grinding, possibly coming. Was it possession by an incubus? Was he ridden by a succubus? He rolled to his side and his lips parted, a gasp forming. The soft slide of covers over his skin was too much. It was like the sensitivity of skin during a high fever, but the sensitivity was a shock of pleasure. Sheets made the barest graze over his chest, his hips... they settled and whispered against buttocks and the backs of his thighs. His hand came to his cock and made a firm grip, seeking a small measure of control. The ridiculously engorged thing was hot to touch, and pulsed with vascular aggression.

"Belle." he said. Was she a part of this unexpected wakefulness?

The moon was full. Earlier in the evening, it had been low in the sky and hazed over with a veil of red. Often seen as a doomful portent, he knew; and yet when he'd stood behind Belle, holding her, and said, "Blood on the moon," she'd become enchanted. She'd left the curtains flung open to the night, to the moon as it rode the dark sky, the glittering darkness.

Now it was higher, smaller and more white-gold than red. It cast stark shadows and seeped a luciferase light into the dark bedroom. Rumpelstiltskin looked at Belle in the light, his mind stalled in the confusion and desire in which he'd woken.

She was awake... and seemed unlike herself. She'd thrown off the bedclothes. Rumpelstiltskin felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched her, and felt an alien strangeness of Belle watching _him_. Her eyes, somber, studied and tracked him, an unearthly vision of pooled shadow and liquid light.

Her gown was pulled up to her ribcage, her legs were apart, both knees akimbo and feet meeting to form a sort of diamond shape of the empty space. Her left hand moved in slow, loose circles between her legs, and... unsettling, she sucked the thumb of her right hand. Rumpelstiltskin had never known her to do such a thing... it felt as if she tried to calm herself, anchor herself. Her eyes, looking over the fist of her hand, held his.

Heat rose from her body in waves. Still struggling with an intensity of arousal, Rumpelstiltskin put the back of his hand to her forehead, then to her neck, just under her jaw. She felt so hot, skin dry and soft, hot to touch. But then, he was fevered, too.

She made soft sounds as he touched her, puppy whimpers, her eyes on his face. Leaning close to her, he whispered, "Belle.... are you _here_?"

She smiled around her thumb, and it was unspeakably eerie. She pulled her thumb, wetly, from her mouth, and said, "No. She's not here. I'm your other lover."

Her voice was different; a little huskier and with a somewhat thicker accent, and the hairs at Rumpelstiltskin's neck stood on end. The ghostly presence wasn't quite enough to calm his cock... the chill that raised his hackles was also a soft touch of ghost fingers at the small of his back, beginning to tease at the base of his spine, the crack of his arse.

For just a moment, Rumpelstiltskin thought he might actually faint, so great was the swoon that beat a rough path within his body. He swayed, propped on his side, eyelashes fluttering.

This... girl. Belle, if she was in there, said, " _Rumpelstiltskin_." Her tongue curled around his name as if she drank wine fermented with dark chocolate. It was as if she tasted his name, and he felt it as pain beneath his sternum and a burst of electric, intense pleasure at his pelvic floor. Surely this was not Lacey... this Belle who was peculiar and childish, and yet... _not_ childish. She had an overspill of magic, and it wound all around him, serpentine. Without touching him, she nevertheless invaded various orifices. He felt a soft touch at his lips, upon his tongue. He felt the touch... elsewhere, sneaky and weirdly erotic, his opening sensitive and his breath taken to feel so claimed. He moaned again, hips beginning to rock.

She whispered his name again, and the thumb sucking hand was on his face, cupping his jaw and cheek. Her other hand still played at her sex, and he found himself thrusting into his fist, watching her. His name upon her lips sounded like the words of a spell, an incantation. It snaked into his body, moving in through eyes, ears, nose and mouth... it slid up his backside, it divided cells, making changes inside of him. His erection jumped; if possible, it became harder, his balls even more full, heavy, and yet drawn up to his body... all of his underparts were alert to penetration. He was being changed and reformed by his own name, worked as a spell by an unknown Belle.

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Killian sat up in bed. Rabbits, herds and flocks and gaggles, ran over his grave. It was clear in his mind's eye... A landscape both subdued and yet bright with moonlight, grasses moving in a soft wind that came off of the sea. It murmured, and sent out an iodine and brine scent, picked up by the moon. All over the landscape, rabbits were silvery or black in the alien light. They stopped and pondered over his unmarked grave, a skeleton in the darkness below was covered in a rot of leather and glittering jewels.

His stump was pressed hard over his heart. His hand, unlikely in the setting of grave-visiting rabbits, had his cock out and fondled warmly. He made a low moan, biting his lip and trying to be quiet.

"Can you feel it?" Baelfire asked.

Killian jumped in his skin. Well, this was embarrassing. For as much as he played with Baelfire, jumping in the shower and crowding his bed, he hadn't actually come to a point of helpless masturbation in his presence. Until now, of course. Looking down, to his side, he saw that Baelfire wasn't much better off. It made him freeze, hand in a loose grip on needy parts, heart pounding so as to hurt. The room was too dark for true sight, but he got the general idea. He felt the heat. Like himself, Baelfire's skin put off a dry heat, febrile and anxiety ridden. He was laying with the bedclothes pushed back, one leg outside of them. His t-shirt was pushed up his belly a bit, one hand down his sweatpants, slowly moving.

_Fuck._

Killian could hardly breathe. His body was hijacked by some high-seas, witch spirit of the erotic, but... so was Baelfire's. All of his focus honed down to the deeper shadows where Baelfire's mouth and eyes were open, to the faint glow that was a strip of belly... to the sweatpants riding low on Baelfire's hips; the movement inside.

How was he supposed to remain calm and at least mostly heterosexual? It was the semi-spoken deal between them, a condition of friendship. _Killian must remain calm and at least mostly heterosexual_.... in his actions towards Baelfire, anyway. Long ago, Killian had taken his play too far... as others had told him, so many times. _Killian always takes things too far_. He could let things get out of hand, so to speak. Baelfire had made it clear; nothing was ever going to happen. Somewhat apologetic, he'd shrugged and said, "I'm straight, Kill."

"Well, all couples have issues." Killian had responded. Baelfire laughed, but didn't relent.

So what did that make him? Less straight, he supposed. His path had always been a bit crooked. In the city, he'd seen a girl wearing a red t-shirt with yellow script that read, 'I'm not bisexual. I'm just greedy.'

Crooked and greedy; that sounded about right.

Gathering his breath, willing himself to _not_ touch Baelfire, he said, "Aye. I feel it. What is it?"

"I have no freaking idea. If this is a magic thing, it isn't something I was formerly introduced to."

Carefully.... careful and more careful... Killian lay back. His shoulder, the stump arm, touched against Baelfire's... he felt the movement of Baelfire's hand, the vibration at the shoulder, and at his cock he felt a bewitching throb of overwrought pleasure. He wanted a kiss so _badly_... only that, he could negotiate. How taxing could it be to Baelfire, truly? He turned his head away from Baelfire, eyes closed and mouth open. He was going to die of pleasure, and of the strain of keeping to himself. He longed to share; to be shared.

"... If I _had_ been," Baelfire said, breathy, "I might never have left home."

Killian gave a soft laugh. Baelfire let go of himself... Killian felt it, and risked turning his head to look. Both of Baelfire's hands rose to his head; long fingered, big hands pushed through his hair, and Killian had evil thoughts about the fingers. Hands.

"Oh... son of a bitch." Baelfire breathed. "This monster is going to eat me alive."

_Gods_. Killian had to assume the monster was Baelfire's cock. He'd never seen it hard... only the innocent, soft and bouncing thing in the shower, dark against pale thighs. Sometimes even that was too much... the blur of nakedness, wet skin, still water-soft once dried.

Forcing himself, he said, "I'm sure you can... _handle_ it, mate."

"Ha, ha."

" _Mua_ ha, ha."

"Yeah. That's what I meant, under the circumstances."

It wasn't going to work. Killian was going to come apart... there could be choking gasps and weeping. Abandoning his own body to the woes of the one-handed, he rolled to his side. He stroked light fingertips over Baelfire's exposed strip of belly, going as low as he dared, then up under the t-shirt... such warmth there, a softness of chest hair - not quite the pelt he wore - and Baelfire's pulse; jumpy at his sternum, his heart beating hard. Baelfire's breath caught, and he said, "Knock it off, Kill."

Killian closed his eyes and bit back a whine. His hips rocked, and it eased nothing.

"Just this." he murmured. He pulled his hand from the illicit territory under the t-shirt and lifted it to Baelfire's face. He stroked up into thick waves and curls, and heard Baelfire's sharp intake of breath as his fingers grasped.

"Okay?" he asked, almost a plea, tears dangerously close. "Just this much."

He felt Baelfire nod, hand returning to slide beneath the runched down waistband of the sweatpants. Killian moaned, his body absorbing movement, scent. The feeling of Baelfire that was both strong and soft... yielding, sheltering.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rumpelstiltskin let out a shaky breath and leaned close to Belle again, overwhelmed by her heat and scent, by the mystery of who she was and the magic she used. he retrieved her hand from between her legs and put it to his face, rubbing against it like a cat. He was so feverish and forthrightly horny, he wanted her scent all over him. He licked and sucked her fingers, swelling with her taste.

Through all of this she watched him, her eyes big in the dark. Her body appeared still, but was tensed, trembling beneath the surface.

He kissed her mouth, and she made a long, low whine... the cry of a dog, or a spirit... pawing at the door to come inside. She reached down and touched him... as always, Rumpelstiltskin felt it as a bit of perversion. Her hands were small and childlike, and the new element of thumb sucking added more confusion to his lust. As she touched him, her fingers an exploring tease, her throat hummed, " _Mmmm...."_

He kissed her again, feeling like he might drown. This was a dream, a spell, and he was going to get lost in it. He might not find his way out. His lips and tongue, touched to Belle's, sent wild signals into his cells. His fingertips felt hyper-sensitized, moving over her skin, feeling smoothness, softness... goosebumps and invisible, downy hairs, the baby flesh of apricots. She was too sweet for a creature such as himself, who might split her open and eat her like ripe fruit.

He felt her fingers still investigating him, a mix of lust and curiosity. She encouraged him where he needed no encouragement, then moved to feel over his balls, his inner thighs.

He rocked helplessly, feeling explosive. In his mind, in image formed of Belle on her hands and knees, leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss at the tip of his engorged cock, as if giving a little blessing. In the vision, that was all it took for him to come, muscles spasming, cock spurting; Belle watching him...

He moaned against her mouth, and she whimpered again, body squirming. She whispered his name in her spell-manner... shivers erupted inside him. It came back to him, Baelfire telling him, "That's a spooky, little girl you got there, Pop."

It was disturbing, the way his son saw Belle as a 'little girl", but he decided he couldn't really argue the 'spooky'. The dagger, the Sprets... now whatever was happening, here. She had vine-tendrils of spirit, and they were inside him. She... a part of her had claimed him, utterly.

"I want you." she whispered.

It filled Rumpelstiltskin with a surging of lust and a sense of direction. He knew what he wanted. He moved Belle to her hands and knees. In the space between his breastbone and belly, at the base of his skull and in his lower belly was disquiet; edgy and tense desire, hot and bothered. Bothersome. Even worrisome. He felt something like a growl in his empty spaces, but softer. He knelt behind her, her legs open wide, and sucked in his breath. His hands spanned her buttocks and back, soaking in lushness and heat.

Shuddering, he covered her. Pushing her hair over her shoulders, lost in her honey'd, warm scent, he kissed along her back, her spine. Sitting back on his heels, he fanned his hands over her bum, fingers splayed, and ran his thumbs along the cleft of her body. _Split-tailed_ , the spinsters said of girl babies, and so she was... the heat of her body intensified as he neared her opening. Like an adolescent boy, his mind suggested, _pussy_ , and he felt his cock surge forward with greedy lechery. As if knowing exactly what drove him, Belle leaned on her forearms, dipped her back and presented herself to him. Rumpelstiltskin could hear her breath, desperate, holding back a plea.

_Gods_. He shook his head, canine, as if to clear it. She was so wet. The light from the moon was a liquid shine on her wet parts, as it had been in her eyes. For a moment he could only stare at the shadow and tease, the light tracing over a fold, showing slickness that slid down her thighs. He touched her with his fingers and she whimpered, dipping lower. Her body, her quiet and breathy whine _begged_.

His body begged as well, and he didn't want to deny either of them, any longer. He sucked his fingers. Wanting more, he moved forward and licked slowly over her sex, teasing her opening with the tip of his tongue. She shivered and moaned, hips moving. He did it again, moaning, himself. He bit against the back of her thigh, just under the curve of her bum, breathing hard and trying to find a sense of control.

"Please..." Belle said. The presence who was Belle. His _other lover_. It was almost a sob, and his heart stuttered. He was so on edge, himself. Ragged. Hoarse, he said, "Belle... Are you...? Are you _there_ , somewhere? Are you understanding this?"

"I'm here." she said, and she did sound more like herself. More of her girlish voice, rather than the witchy woman who had smiled around her thumb. Who was also Belle. "I feel different," she whispered. "but I'm here."

"Oh gods, Belle. I _want_ you."

His body covered hers again, and he leaned over her, tilting her face to his with one hand. He kissed her, the kiss a long and agonizing tease of hedonistic tongue and burning, sensitive lips. When he pulled away from it, he said, "I'm going to _fuck_ you."

She keened, offered up and urgent. It made him restless and crazy. Holding his cock, he slid into her with no hesitation. Gasping, he went still. He was flush to her, feeling her wetness all over. The scent of her pussy was caught up in his nostrils, at the back of his throat. It was wicked in his head, and her dreamy sigh, the fluttering pulse around his cock drove him in wicked ways.

He pulled slowly back, almost completely out of her, clenching his jaw. He moved only the head of his cock in and out of her, teasing them both and swallowing up the sounds she made, her helpless need, with avid, aching hunger.

He swore through gritted teeth, and drove fully into her again. Her body accepted him, gripped him. He thrust hard, over and over, feeling her go ever tighter around him, the heat of it almost unbearable. Her hips bucked, her muscles convulsing and squeezing around his cock as she cried out, and then he was coming inside her, all vision taken away, darkness and moon obliterated by a loud sunburst in his head.

He leaned over Belle, pressing his lips and then the side of his face to her back, breathing hard. His arms circled around her, feeling up and down her body. When his fingers touched her clitoris, she jumped a little. Sensitive, he knew. But _hot_ , everything wet. It took nothing... a feather light touch, a quick, sliding jiggle and she was coming again, her pussy squeezing him so that he grew half-hard again, and rocked inside of her as she cried out, muscles bearing down. He felt the movement cause his seed to spill out of her, run down her leg. It sent an animal sort of satisfaction through him, and he reached to feel it with his fingers. He massaged it into her skin.

"Are you alight, love?" he asked.

"Yes."

He made himself pull out of her, and felt her ease onto her back. "I was dreaming." she said.

"During _that_? Surely not."

"No." he heard her smile. "Before."

"I think you loosed something, dearie. Some of your magic. Of the voluptuous and beguiling variety."

She pulled him down into her embrace. Without thought, his hand went to her breast, his mouth to her neck. Her jaw. She folded herself around him.

"Do you like that sort of magic?" she asked.

"Oh, dearie. _Yes_."

　

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Now I can breathe for a minute...


	22. Friends in Low Places

 

So often, Rumpelstiltskin was up before Belle... especially now that Baelfire was in the house. He was up and in a habit of making breakfast. She was called from dreams by the scents of bacon and coffee.

But she woke, the room still mostly dark, and Rumpelstiltskin was in deep sleep beside her, his even breath not quite a snore. His eyes moved beneath their lids as he watched his dreams.

At some point in the night, Sprets had arrived. Belle had come to realize they were semi-nocturnal. Sometimes they settled in when the humans went to bed... other times they formed little, hunting parties. Maybe raiding parties; who knew? They roamed the house, the basement and greenhouse... or they went out into the night. She guessed, with the fullness of the wine-colored moon, they'd roamed gardens, fields and woods. They were probably all a little high and visionary on mushrooms.

They were home, now, the room full of little, sleeping breaths and whistling wheezes. Egg was in her hair. Others - she'd caught names here and there; Moth, Lizard, Boo; but distinction was almost impossible - were flopped over one another on the bed. One was curled into the hair that fell over Rumpelstiltskin's neck, he on his stomach, lips pursed in sleep.

Belle touched a fingertip to his mouth, then felt along the sandpapery stubble at his jaw. He murmured in sleep, but was deep under its current. The little Spret at his neck sighed.

Rising, she found a warm robe and warmer, thick, wool socks, and padded off to the kitchen. Egg was still half asleep in her hair. The house was quiet, although a steady, somehow comforting snore came from behind Baelfire's door. Her heart made a surprising squeeze.... The Baelfire of her dream was felt inside her, now, and she wanted to pause. She wanted to open his door, and see what he looked like, sleep softened and nestled to his covers.

She decided that, no, it wasn't her place. It would be an intrusion into his privacy... the sort of thing Killian could do with little thought, but it felt off-limits to herself.

She found Killian, shivering in the kitchen. He sat at the small kitchen table, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing a pair of dark sweatpants. He was hunched, rather grumpy looking, hugging his arms about himself. If possible, his face was even darker with stubble. Having noticed, with a slippery, guilty interest, his relative nakedness, Belle was still struck with the sense of something _very_ naked, very different in his presentation. It hit her... his eyes. They weren't ringed and shadowed in black. He looked even more boyish without the costumery of darkness... a bit vulnerable.

"Killian, aren't you cold?"

He gave her a look, one eyebrow raised. Muttering, she went to a linen closet and fetched a warm throw. Returned, she draped it over his shoulders. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I didn't want to wake Bae." he murmured. "I couldn't find me clothes without turning on a light."

Belle studied him; he cocooned himself in the blanket, bleary eyed and a little moody. She could do nothing for his feet, bare and high-arched things, beginning to turn blue. She nudged Egg, who made a little sound of query.

"Killian's _cold_." she said. She made her voice deeply concerned. Killian was Egg's most favorite, even though she'd made a habit of sticking close to Belle.

"Oh, _no_." Egg breathed. It was unthinkable.

She hopped from Belle to Killian, climbing up his blanket to re-curl herself on his shoulder. She was still wrung-out from her moon night.

"What's this all about?" Killian asked, raising a finger to nuzzle the Spret, looking at Belle.

With a shrug, Belle said, "She does something... some little, Egg magic. It feels like heat flows into your body."

The sound of Egg's purr amped up, and Killian looked surprised. He seemed to unclench a bit, the cold loosening its grip.

"That's bloody brilliant."

Smiling, Belle turned to the coffee maker. "You could've made some coffee, you know. At least it would have given you some warmth."

"I don't know how to work the befrigged machine, all that digital business, Butterbean. Or where you keep the coffee. Or the tea, for that matter... I might've managed a kettle. And that Spret of the Croc's... Gizzard? He's all tucked in around the wire. I was afraid if I sent power through it, it might cook him."

"Oh, he loves electricity." Belle said. Working around Gizzard, sleeping it off like the others, she went about making coffee.

"Want something to eat?"

"I'm starving, love."

"I was just going to make myself some porridge... er, oatmeal. But I'll make eggs if you prefer." To Egg's small mew of protest, she said, "Sorry, boo-bear."

"Porridge would be lovely."

Thank heavens, Belle thought. Though not quite the cook that Rumpelstiltskin was, she felt sure she could manage breakfast. But there was timing to consider when making eggs, because it seemed they came with accessories. Bacon, toast, maybe potatoes... She had trouble making sure it was all done at the same time.

Soon she was settled down with Killian, both of them quiet and taking in nourishment, both occasionally warming their hands around cups of coffee, like tiny campfires.

"I can't believe Rumpel's still sleeping." she murmured.

It was as if he and Baelfire had joined in the Spret Moon-Revelry. No sounds of stirring to wakefulness, no plumbing leaping to life as toilets flushed or showers revved up. Only a quiet house, slowly growing lighter, and the circled hunkering of herself and Killian. Wheezy snores and murmurs of Sprets.

Killian snorted.

"What?" Belle asked.

Giving her his naughty look, something to which she'd quickly grown accustomed, he said, "I imagine he's sleeping the sleep of the righteously fucked."

Blushing, Belle looked back down to her porridge. It _had_ been a strange night. And it was strange still... As she'd felt her heart in its painful squeeze, outside of Baelfire's room, she was feeling something of the same around Killian. Oh, how Rumpelstiltskin would loathe it. But there it was, a spirit of her dream that held onto her. She felt a connection to him, and a dawning thought of... _oh, poor Ruby_. Belle couldn't shake her awareness of Killian's draw to Baelfire. The draw also came as something of a relief, for she was feeling a little belatedly fascinated by his looks, his body. It was less attraction and more of a desire to study, but it existed, which felt damning enough. His differences to what she knew interested her... the dark hair on his body, the pattern of it, swirled on his chest and even his belly, laying over his forearms, thick stubble creeping from his jaw and down his neck... it was just so different from Rumpelstiltskin. A different animal. She understood why Ruby, wolfish on the inside, would be attracted to the surface presentation of Killian.

With a soft laugh, Killian said, "Bae, too. Not that he was fucked, or did any fucking. Heaven forfend. But he sleeps the sleep of the blessed angels, having had a great deal of tension drained from body and spirit. And what I want to know, Butterbean, is: What. Did you. _Do_?"

Belle felt a rush of guilt. It accosted her from different directions, and for various reasons. But, really, she hadn't done anything.

"Why do you think I did something?"

"I feel it, love. I felt it in the night. Little witch fingers playing in my bed." His fingers made an insinuating curl at her, and he said, "Tickle, tickle."

Oh, _gods_. She was aware that her dream had somehow spilled into Rumpelstiltskin... but they'd had a sort of mind-spirit sharing before. An overlap. Even feeling the presence of another part of herself, she dismissed it as more of the same. She was aware of herself and others possessing different aspects; spirit babies were made; birds and animals acted as messengers; Sprets were released. In short, weird stuff happened. She'd come to a place of easy acceptance.

But to think that her dream had gone to cavort and incite amongst Baelfire and Killian...

"And she blushes." Killian said. "So, what was it? Are you casting love spells that are getting too big for their breeches?"

"No. I'm sorry. I just... had a dream."

"That was you _dreaming_? I'd like to have _your_ sorts of dreams, Butterbean."

Somewhat wakeful, Egg said, " _Butt_ -bean."

"Oh, Egg. No." Belle said, and Killian gave a big smile.

"Don't start calling me that." Belle warned.

He snickered, and Belle, blushing anew but curious, asked, "Why aren't you sleeping the sleep of... the blessed angels?"

"Funny you ask, love. You see, it's because my balls are more blue than your eyes, perhaps moving into a lovely shade of violet or purple. Because that nighttime visitation put me in an awkward situation with my mate, and only one of us lives guilt-free enough to _do_ anything about it."

Oh... So, he felt free to talk to her about his balls. She was glad they were seated, Killian wrapped in his blanket. The urge to glance at his crotch for signs of distress was niggling.

"Well, but..." she said. " If it's that bad, couldn't you just..." she trailed off. Boundary crossing was going haywire.

He raised a questioning brow, and - taking a practical approach - Belle said, "Well, you are _right_ -handed, aren't you?"

" _Butterbean_. Dirty girl."

Now as red as she thought she could be, she muttered, "Just saying." Desperate to switch gears, Belle took a breath and asked, "Killian, are you in love with Baelfire?" _As long as we're testing personal boundaries and speaking of genitalia._

He looked a little startled, or shaken, but kept her gaze. His voice a bit raw, he said, "Aye." After a moment, he added, "It's horrible."

Oh, how doomed. Belle felt bad, all around. Baelfire would want Emma, who might or might not want him in return. Ruby, with her hair and eyes that matched Killian's so prettily, was _mad_ for him. It seemed like Killian was attracted to women, maybe to Ruby... yet he was tangled up in feelings for Baelfire. Whose mother he'd seduced. It _was_ horrible. It was a soap opera, a disaster. All this time, she'd thought her relationship with Rumpelstiltskin was crazy and complicated. Her mind was filled with some cartoon character from Lacey days... it marched about, mournfully and resignedly saying, _doom, doom, doom..._

"Well... that... " she searched for words.

"Sucks, in the word of the day? Bites? Blows? Is fucked up beyond all recognition?"

With a sigh, Belle said, "Yes."

She watched him muster up a bit of false bravado. It was similar to the charm he put on for Ruby, but from a different family.

"Don't worry about me, Butterbean. I've been dealing with it for years. I'm currently living vicariously through your rather interesting, lavish and _abundant_ sex life."

"Killian!"

"It's true. It turns out the Dark One is quite the sex machine. And - perhaps not surprising - a bit _kinky_."

" _Killian_!"

His hand rose to splay over his heart, big and articulate, glossy-nailed. He erupted into a series of quiet, but escalating, gasps and cries. "Ah!... _Ah!... AH!..."_ Falsetto, he was mimicking _her_.

Shocked, Belle stood. " _Hush_!" she hissed.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Rumpel, yes!"

She hit him, hard, on the upper arm... which she found to be a mostly unyielding, wiry mass of muscle. She wasn't terribly effective. The blow and Killian's breathy voice excited Egg. She stood on his shoulder, shook a digit at Belle and said, " _No_ , butt-bean."

"That's a good girl." Killian laughed, and Egg beamed.

With a sound of dismay, Belle dropped her head to her hands.

"Oh, don't be cross, love. I'm playing, is all. I've been told I go too far."

"No. Really?" Belle said, dryly.

Smiling, Killian said, "Come here... give us a cuddle." He stretched out his right arm, opening the blanket and momentarily arresting Belle with his hitherto unknown brand of masculinity. Furred and hard, yet... open in a way that many men were not. Briefly, Belle moved to stand in the shelter he'd created, and his arm came around her hip.

"See?" he said to Egg. "She's a good Bean."

" _Bean_." Egg repeated, dropping the 'butt'. Much to Belle's relief.

With the realization that she'd been dying to do so, she pushed the fingers of one hand into Killian's thick, crow-feather hair. It was like wanting to pet something wild. It raised a scent of black poppy and hibiscus, something virile and a touch dangerous. Stepping away, she tugged at his hair, pulling it as Rumpelstiltskin sometimes pulled hers. "Behave." she said, stern.

"Oh yes, Bean. Like that."

"Hush, you idiot." Belle said, taking their dishes to the sink. "Rumpel will kill us both. Or," she glanced at Killian over her shoulder, "at least you."

　

　

　

 


	23. Daddy's Home

It was happening. Baelfire stood outside of Emma's door, hand raised, knuckled and ready to knock. He was frozen in place; maybe he needed to go throw up, first. In so many ways, is body seemed ready to betray him. It could be a serious let down at times.

The hot girl, Ruby, had seemed truly surprised when he asked about Emma's room. "Oh... You know Emma?" Her eyes were confused, full of questions. Baelfire could only say, "Um..." Voice froggy and thick.

His father had wanted to come with him, but he couldn't have that. He was a grown man. Or... that was the working theory. He had to face whatever there was to face, and he had to do it _now_. If he delayed any further, he would just _hang out_ , indefinitely. Hide out at his rich father's house.

The problem was hope. He'd done without it for a good while, and he'd adapted to its absence. He'd heard it said that the definition of evil was the stripping away of hope. Could be. He'd discuss it with his father, later. But, meanwhile, life without an obvious source of hope, nothing to really look forward to, had actually created for him a protective sort of barrier. It kept him focused on basic needs, on survival, and he didn't waste a lot of time pining and yearning. Acceptance. He'd become good at that. Appreciation of small things, like food and shelter.

 _Don't get your hopes up_ , people said. Sound advise. High hopes had a way of crashing down from their lofty vantages. The crash was so much harder than the general fogginess, the somewhat uncomfortable but basically manageable absence of hope.

The crash hurt like hell.

Okay, so maybe now wasn't the time. His gorge rose a bit, and he lowered his knocking hand, letting it come to rest at his belly. _Chicken shit_ , he told himself. And then her door opened.

Working in a hospital, he heard things. Even as the guy with the cart full of cleaning products and trash bags, one still got an earful when things went awry. Agley, as could happen to the most well thought out plans of rodents. The ER had its own cart - a crash cart. There it was, the crash. Never good. Baelfire stood still, looking at Emma, and he thought.... _oh, shit. I'm crashing_. He's coding, said a voice in his head. Clear a space.

He wasn't breathing. They would have to intubate. The impersonal and ominous voice said, _Bag him_.

Maybe it was happening to Emma, too. Upon opening the door, she'd done a startled step-back; a reaction to an unexpected presence in her doorway. But she regained focus... he saw in her green eyes that she'd named the presence, and she simply stared at him. Her eyes grew more and more wide.

He was so croaky... he could hardly speak. Well, he was intubated, after all. Something was doing his breathing for him, and - naturally - the intrusion made his throat feel constricted, his gag reflex alert and ready to kick in at a moment's notice.

"Emma." He sounded like Gizzard, only bigger.

Her mouth dropped open. "What...."

"Can we talk?" What a joke. Like he could talk. He was having a cerebral infarction, or something. Slurred speech, loss of control of his body... if he had to move, it would be in a Quasimodo shuffle, arms swinging for momentum. In fact, it was _all_ happening: cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, cerebrovascular hemorrhage... for his vision was dim, yet red, there was a swooshing pulse in his head, and his chest was compressed by something unseen. Unbidden, there came a vision of his father tearing his mother's heart from her chest, and he very nearly _did_ throw up. His hand rose to his chest.

"What...?" Emma repeated. Poor thing. He understood. Wires gone haywire, brain overload; complete meltdown. In a way, it was not unlike when his father approached him in the park.

"What are you _doing_ here?" she asked.

"I... my father brought me to Storybrooke."

"You father?"

He nodded, sort of. Like he was puppeteered, a hand up his ass, manipulating his spine. Which he hoped to reclaim ownership of, one day.

"Your _father_?"

"Can I come in? I need to sit down."

" _You_ need to sit down?"

"Oh, Emma... please. Stop answering my questions with questions. I feel like I'm having a heart attack, here."

" _You're_ having a heart attack?"

He gave her a look. As horrific as the moment was, a familiar dynamic kicked in. He didn't mean for it to happen. His look said, _Emma, for crying out loud, woman_. Her return look said, _oh no you didn't_ , and yet she stepped aside. She allowed him into her room.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Your father is Rumpelstiltskin."

Nothing about the moment was funny, but an element of hysteria crawled, frantic and untrustworthy, many ants beneath the surface of his skin. Often _truths_ ; feelings of the variety that were big, obvious, shared by all via cliches and greeting cards; could trigger Baelfire to become suddenly inappropriate. He was the guy at the funeral who was startled by his own sniggering snort. He then had to mask it as a coughing fit.

His mouth twisted into a grin, because... well, honestly. Unlike Emma, he'd lived in both worlds. But he'd lived here long enough to how absurd was the crossover.

At his grin, she raised a cool eyebrow and said, "You're the son of the Dark One."

That did it. It was a bit too much of a Luke Skywalker moment... if only Killian were here to fall down and clutch at his stump. He was so good at falling down. The snort leaked out, a little eruption of punch-drunk ants. Holding his hand over his mouth, he shook his head, trying to negate the reality of his actions.

"Sorry." he said, sobering. Emma was _very_ controlled. She hadn't always been so, and there was another surge of hysteria, a stalking of funeral laughter, to think that the way he'd left her might have shaped the woman before him.

It had shaped _his_ life; that was for sure.

"Yeah." he said. "I'm that guy. The 'sins of the father' guy."

"You couldn't have mentioned this to me... before?"

His look was flat. Meaning no disrespect, but - bitch, please.

"Really?" he asked. "Prior to discovering your role as the savior of the people of the Enchanted Forest..." oh, crap. No laughing. "How would you have interpreted that sort of confession?"

Her face didn't exactly soften, but some of the cool-to-cold seemed to thaw in the slightest degree. She became chilly, with premonitions of warmth but dreams of hoarfrost.

Nodding, she said, "Yeah. It would have been nuts. I'm still having trouble every time I see my own parents."

 Sooner or later, he was going to bust out. It would be a stupid, giggling sort of laughter, where maybe he would cry. His life with Emma, up and down the east coast, simply had not been a part of all of this.

He pictured a resident beauty queen of the Enchanted Forest, going rogue and gaining a questionable reputation for keeping the company of dwarfs. And a person of princely proportions who always did the right thing and said things like, _my noble steed_.

Gods, Emma was different. Baelfire was having a hard time looking directly at her. He knew her... he _knew_ her, his body reminded him; a reminder he hadn't felt in a good while. And yet he didn't know her. In his eyes, she'd always been brave. A clever and sometimes audacious girl who, nevertheless, came to look to him for direction. All of the care he hadn't received, he'd wanted to give to her. He'd wanted to protect her and look after her, to make her feel safe, to feed her. And for awhile, he had.

He could hardly imagine it, looking at the self-contained woman before him. Surely her eyes probed in exactly as uncomfortable a manner as Belle's... What was with these Storybrooke women? There was a similarity of gaze; light eyes that seemed to see past the bullshit. But unlike Belle, who blushed easily and would drop her gaze, Emma was a statue. Her girlhood self had been sunny and beautiful. This woman was beautiful, but pale and glacial.

"I saw your son." He more or less blurted it. He was _not_ cool and self-contained and statue-like. His forearms leaned heavily on his knees, barely holding him up. Every so often his head dropped down and he ran both hands through his hair.

He looked at her. A light went through her eyes, and he became certain that her composure was a mask. She stared back at him, and seemed unable to respond.

"Emma... is he mine?"

Yes, it was a mask. Out of completely nowhere, no trembling preamble, her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes filled with tears. Though Baelfire had no wish to hurt her, he was weirdly relieved. There she was; she was in there. The implication of her reaction hit home, and he felt that as a relief, too. It came as a surprise.

"Yes." she whispered. "He's your son."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Baelfire couldn't move. He watched Emma, thinking that he'd already known. He'd already known the truth, so it was weird that he was frozen in place, having heard the spoken word... the power of speech as delivered by Emma.

Then, like a switch turned on, he could move. It was a lurch. He crossed the small space between his perch of a chair and Emma's body, sitting with correct posture on the edge of her bed. The lurch made him land on his knees, and he lay his head in her lap. His arms circled her hips and held tight. She didn't move, didn't touch him, but he held on. He held himself in place.

"I'm sorry." he whispered. "I'm sorry I left you... the way I did."

"Why did you?" she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears and sniffly with those that had leaked out.

Still holding tight, he looked up at her. The green of her eyes was intense, the color somehow inflamed by her tears. Her coolness was replaced with a high, blushing color at her cheeks and lips... tension showed at the edges of her eyes. She was devastating. His heart knocked around wildly in his ribcage, and he tried to get a grip.

"One of the people from home found me, and pretty much warned me not to get in your way. Not to distract you or keep you from your... destiny... of being the savior." Home. Destiny. _Shit_.

" _Who_? What could have ben so convincing? Enough to bail on me like that... send me to _jail_..."

"August..." Baelfire said, and he saw that Emma knew the name at once. She gasped and looked away, tears beginning to run freely. Baelfire had learned that sometimes the satisfaction of connecting the dots was eclipsed by the awfulness.

"He was so fucking dramatic." Baelfire said. "He couldn't just _tell_ me he knew who I was. He had me look into a mystery case, where he had it spelled out..."

"The typewriter." Emma said. " _That_ guy."

"Yeah." Baelfire agreed.

She wiped her hand over her face. Looking down at him, she said, "This has all been so... I don't even have words. I was so happy to find my family. But it kind of freaks me out that we're all the same age. And that they're faerie tale people. I feel like I'm going to wake up, and none of this will have been real. The only thing keeping me sort of steady, believing... is Henry. And I have to share him." She rolled her eyes. "With an Evil Queen. Boy. I bet she'll love the fact that _you've_ arrived. She's only recently given up trying to kill _me_. Well, maybe."

Baelfire smiled at her. She didn't smile back... her eyes probed. The Storybrooke, female probe. The men of Storybrooke must feel a strong need to mind their P's and Q's.

"Have you been seeing anyone?" he asked. Another blurt. Still, all of his questions were pertinent.

Emma gave him a look of disbelief., and he smiled again. Chin propped on her thigh, he'd become more relaxed.

"I haven't been much into dating." she said. "You know, Neal... I guess there's something about going to jail, and -just for instance - giving _birth_ there that puts you off the dating scene."

His smile faded, but he kept looking at her. "I can see that."

"You?" She asked.

"Not so much. The most action I've gotten of late is getting felt up by Killian's stump."

Emma gave a look, and he added, "Don't ask."

"He's... the swashbuckler guy?"

"You _know_ Killian?"

"No. I just met him. Ruby's got a big crush on him."

"Oh, the hot chick."

Emma drew back a little, both brows raised. Feeling a mollified blush rise to his face, Baelfire said, "I say that as, like, an archetype. Not necessarily a preference. Or in objectification, if you're on the verge of judgment."

"Ooh. Cassidy. You know fancy words."

Smiling again, Baelfire said, "Yeah. I'm fancy."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She eventually made him rise from her lap. It was unfortunate... he'd been stable, there. On his feet, he was unsteady.

"I want to know him." he told her. "And I hope to get to know you, again."

"I don't know, Neal."

"Emma. He's my son. _Our_ son. Why should this long pattern of orphaning and abandonment just keep on going? We're both _here_... even if you don't want me in your life... that way... I need to be in his. He could have his family."

"Well. I told him you were dead."

" _What_?"

Emma shrugged. "You could've been, for all I knew."

"And you seem all broken up over the idea."

She shrugged again. He suspected the indifference was an act, but it still stung a bit.

"It's complicated." she sighed. "I'm his mother, but he's not really mine. Regina is very... possessive. _Very_. She won't be happy you're here, Neal."

Feeling a bit off-the-cuff, Baelfire gave a wild grin. He held a triumphant finger in the air in mimicry of his father, and said, "Then it's fortunate I'm the son of the Dark One. I come complete with my own arsenal of evil. See? I'm badass now."

Emma was standing; at that, she sat down again.

"Damn." she breathed. "It's too weird. You know, your dad's kind of a tool."

Well. That caused an unexpected bristle of defensiveness. Where had it come from? Was he turning to the dark side? He said, "Yeah... but don't. Okay, Emma?"

She studied him, then simply said, "Okay."

"You'll let me know Henry?"

"I'm telling you, it's not wholly up to me, Neal. But I won't stop you."

"What about you?"

Her face clouded, and Baelfire felt cautious. Still, he asked, "Can we... just get together sometimes? Talk?"

"I have to think on it."

With the clouding of her face, her mask fell back into place. It pained Baelfire... he felt it as if she'd left the room. She turned away from him.

Feeling himself go croaky again, he said, "Fair enough."

 


	24. Saline

 

Emma didn't have a comfort zone for tears, although, as a girl, they'd come easily. They were at the ready, and flowed in both sorrow and happiness. As a girl, she'd been a hugger of other girls. Collectives of lost girls, in second hand clothes and dime store lipstick and nail polish. The hugging was long and intense, a connection of emotion and identity. Bodies rocked to and fro within the full embrace, and tears flowed.

Little had been indulgent or lavish about her life, but that part had been luxurious, expansive. The making of a friend... more importantly, the creating of a sister. Cutting palms or pricking fingers, pressing blood to blood, as if they could actually alter genetics, DNA. Blood sisters, sisters in spirit. Girls who had no one.

Materially impoverished, she'd allowed for a soul-expense of languishing. She could remember the heightened focus of it, the faces of girls who shared in the urgency of feeling, but she could no longer _feel_ the feeling. Sworn loyalties, declarations of love... it hadn't been sexual, yet there was ridiculous, impassioned poetry in her memory. Like Christian mystics writing verse and line to Jesus that yet read like flowery erotica. She and her friends had written in colored ink, and sprayed envelopes with stolen perfume. These things had once been in her blood, such a part of who she was. She could whisper to a sister, _I would die for you_. She'd meant it. Speaking the fever of her emotions was too much; it brought tears.

Then came Neal. It took more time than the immediacy with which she bonded to girls, but her feelings began to transfer to him. She still cried easily, then. He kept her safe and held, and sorrows, named and unnamed, flooded from her body. As she had done with girlfriends, she could _feel_ his hurt parts. He wasn't a crier... he didn't languish. He didn't give time to an extravagance of fevered words and sworn allegiance. But he was like her, and she felt it. A bruised and damaged boy... his hurt crept into her own, and altered it. She became both a child and a mother. He took care of her, but she wanted to care for him in return. In a lopsided way, a part of her grew up... a little girl and a sort of Wendy to lost children, side by side.

... But then he'd sold her out, and she'd never seen it coming. All this time... she couldn't begin to understand it. She'd thought it _must_ have been for money. Or he'd tired of looking after her. After betrayal, jail, and having, then giving up his baby, she was long changed.

Her tears hadn't exactly dried up, but they were more than unwelcome. No longer catharsis; no longer a shared, almost romantic knowing of another; they were a set back. They hurt her head and throat, and they came in painful fits.

She was no longer one to reach out, to bond. She'd kept to herself, and - seemingly on their own - her senses had honed themselves. She was sensitive to lies, alert to betrayal. She wouldn't be taken by such surprise again.

After Neal left her room at Granny's, the fitful, hiccupping crying hit her. She thought she mourned. Since arriving in Storybrooke, she'd had moments when she mourned letting Henry go. She mourned the decision, the lost time. She mourned that she'd done to him what had been done to her.

Now, it seemed, the mourning was for herself. She cried over her whole, damn life... but especially for how alone she'd felt when Henry was born. She'd never been able to be soft with herself when it came to his birth and adoption... she accepted that she'd done what she had to do, but found no forgiveness within herself.

Seeing Neal seemed to change her view, somewhat. With something like heartbreak, she thought... she'd only been a teenager. She'd been a kid, herself; with no real hope. her only hope had disappeared, and he'd sacrificed her to do so. She cried for the girl she'd been, who had slowly changed and become this other person. A harder person, but safer. More secure.

Neal hadn't really changed. She could see a little age, markers of stress and hard living, here and there. Mostly he looked like the boy she remembered. That brought tears as well. Like her blood sisters, he was another thing she could remember, but could no longer feel. Nor had she been able to feel such unabashed love for anyone since. To her shame, she even held herself back from Henry, protecting herself from the agony of love. Maybe she was protecting him, in case she fled, unable to bear it.

In his absence, Neal was still in the room. He visited himself upon her. She remembered how she'd loved the soft, huskiness of his voice, gravelly when raised or upset. She'd loved his sweet smile, plumping out his cheeks and making his eyes _so_ sparklingly mischievous; and the worried furrow of his brow, eyebrows pushed up at the center.

As a teenager, she'd looked at black and white photos on postcards, pilfered from the drugstore.... James Dean, Marilyn Monroe... dead celebrities who enjoyed a pop culture revival in the 80s and 90s. She'd looked at Neal's worried brow, his squinted eyes and soft mouth, and thought gushingly, girlie things about poor, doomed James Dean. He'd taken her virginity, which she'd handed over with such urgency, it wasn't even part of the equation. She and her blood sisters were alike... desperately seeking connection. None of them had been taught to put value on something as ephemeral and useless as virginity.

Weirdly, though, it had meant a lot to Neal. Everything about her seemed to mean so much to him, and when she thought of those things, it made the betrayal so much harder. The _why_ of it, while she'd carried Henry, wore her out. Well. Now she knew.

Curling up on her bed, willing her tears to calm, she knew that - in part - her tears were for Neal, alone. For how safe she'd once felt, and how - when everything so abruptly changed - that safety turned out to be such an illusion. She would never be able to believe in it again.

He'd been so warm, and, to Emma's memory, a soft boy. That was how she'd felt him... he was solid and strong, but it was like he had no hard edges, nothing sharp to cause her pain. It went hand in hand with the huskiness of his voice, the rounding of his cheeks in smile, the warm, searching nature of his gaze. She'd felt him as the most solid, real and caring thing in her life; the closest connection to family she'd ever known. And then he was gone.

 


	25. The Castle

Formal, Egg said, "One-a-ton-a-tine...."

She used Belle's knee as a pulpit and from there sermonized, the spread of her little arms encompassing both Belle and Killian.

"Yes, love?" Killian prompted.

They shared the love seat. Gizzard, perched on the mantle, appeared to roll his eyes. It surprised Belle, who had not seen such an expression on a Spret... had he learned it from Rumpelstiltskin? There were no discernible whites to the eyes of the Sprets... the eye-roll was gestured bodily, with his whole head.

"... Pwincess Kill-Ann..."

"Oh. Aye?" Killian looked at Belle, brow creased, and she shrugged.

"Pwincess Kill-Ann and Pwincess Bae was in for-west. _Dark_." She lowered and wavered her voice. " _Spooks_. King Wumpelss hunts in for-west wif _knife_."

"This is sounding rather ominous for our intrepid princesses." Killian observed.

"Wumpelss stalks blood." Gizzard said from his high perch.

Other Sprets were gathering, appearing and crowing around, listening to Egg. To Gizzard, Egg said, " _Shhhh_. Hushes, you." Belle was beginning to somewhat lose a sense of cute... Egg's _dark_ and _spook_ s tickled behind her ear.

"Belle _twapped_... under twee... Oh _no_!"

"Oh, no." Belle echoed.

"Wumpelss to find Belle." Gizzard said, with a rather superior air to Egg.

Egg nodded. "King Wumpelss find Belle, but - still - Belle lost. _Spells_. Spells _hides_ Belle."

"Whatever can be done?" Killian asked. "Can Princess Killian and Princess Bae help?"

Giggling, in her habitual eye-flirt with Killian, Egg said, "Yes! Pwincesses bwake spells. Open door. King Wumpelss _need_ pwincesses."

To which Gizzard said, " _Pft_." Evidently disagreeing with the tale.

Looking at Belle again, Killian said, " One likes to be useful. Heroism eases the painful surprise of finding oneself transgender."

"I imagine." Belle said.

She was feeling a little off. It was only a small, half-baked, little nothing of a story, but how easy it was to see an image of herself, lost to trance and curled up under the earth. Roots growing over her, crawling things discovering her. And Rumpelstiltskin.... without any thought, her mind painted him as he was before, as he appeared in her dreams. Skin and eyes so changed by the Dark One, clad in leather and awash in magic.... It was easy to see him, holding the serpent dagger and hunting, sniffing out her blood. It was familiar, and it troubled Belle in its familiarity.

Somewhere in the dark woods of her mind's eye traveled Baelfire and Killian, purpose unclear. Possibly wearing tiaras.

The front door opened and Baelfire, a bit more pale and ghost-like than Belle recalled, came into the living room. He paused, eyes taking in Spret story-time. Belle thought he looked faintly ill.

"Pwincess Bae!" Egg trilled.

With a glance to Belle and Killian, Baelfire said, "Well... that sounds right."

He entered the nucleus, parting groups of Sprets here and there, and sat heavily in a chair.

"Alright, mate?"

"No."

Belle felt her stomach go heavy, as if suddenly weighted down with stones. Wasn't there a story? Was it the fate of a Bad Wolf?

"You saw Emma." she said. She wasn't sure if Baelfire looked morose, or simply _less_ , somehow. As if he'd left a part of himself elsewhere.

"Yeah. It wasn't bad.... well. After the gut wrenching, blood curdling, spine severing terror of actually _doing_ it, it wasn't bad. But... I don't know. I think maybe I just hurt her too much." His hand rose to his temple, eyes closing.

"She'll come around, Bae." Killian said.

Belle could feel tension in Killian's body... it seeped into her and her newly heavy belly began a little tremble. She was too much of a sponge, she thought. She was soaking them both right up, their various sorrows and fits of angst that were not her own. They didn't belong to her, and she shouldn't feel them, so.

Egg, moving more carefully than her usual zip, went to Baelfire and climbed cautiously up his pant leg. Gizzard, as was his nature, came to Belle. He said, "Shhh," his expression making a secret between them, then he closed his eyes. He did his Gizzard-thing, and Belle felt an evening out of overblown empathy. Concern remained, but she was more herself.

"Bae sad?"

Lowering his hand and looking at Egg, Baelfire said, "Little bit. Mostly thinking."

Opening his eyes, Gizzard said, "For what next?"

"Right." Baelfire said.

Voice rather low and hushed, Killian asked, "He's yours, mate? You have a son?"

For a moment, Baelfire tucked his lips between his teeth, his mouth a line. His brow was troubled, and Belle thought - _don't cry. Please don't_. She didn't think her too-open soul could take it, and she was certain Killian couldn't take it. Baelfire seemed oblivious to Killian's quiet unraveling.

He didn't cry. He nodded, and when the cloud passing over his face eased its darkness, he said, "I have a son."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They made a castle. Belle began it with thoughts of a little fort, a fortress for Chloe, who was overrun with Sprets. For that, she could have simply set out a cardboard box... or left a paper bag laying about, open and inviting. Chloe loved to disappear into bags, and then peer out from the darkness, owl-eyed and furtive when discovered. She would open her mouth and issue a soundless meow.

The Chloe premise expanded into a small city for Sprets, and -eventually - Baelfire and Killian were taking apart boxes and reforming them, making secret shelters and a mock castle that was big enough for a man to fit into. It became elaborate. It took over the living room, and by the time Rumpelstiltskin returned from his shop, the project had come to include hot glue, paint, glitter, scissors, strung lights, Belle's music playing at a healthy volume, and many excited, dancing Sprets.

"Oh, dear." he said. A glitter covered Spret whizzed by, dusting him with sparkle as though it were faerie dust. It glimmered in his hair.

Coming out from beneath a hung sheet in an ivy print, or the south-facing castle wall, Belle said, "Rumpel!"

"Hello, love. I'm back."

Deep in the castle's interior, Killian muttered, " _Oh, yes._ There. You. Are." Gizzard, the little, psychic monkey, appeared from nowhere and frowned. Evocative of E.T., he said, " _Be_ good."

"Aye mate."

"This is worse than the havoc wrought under the care of Ms. Lucas." Rumpelstiltskin observed.

Belle looked disappointed. "They like it, so." she said. She peered up at glittery, paper stars, stuck to the ceiling. A smiling, sleepy crescent moon hung over the highest tower, the tower's jagged silhouette cut out of cardboard.

"It was for Chloe, to start." she said. "I kept a little den for her in the great hall, so she can hide out. Bit Gizzard's crew got involved, and the project... grew."

Brow raised, Rumpelstiltskin looked at her. "Indeed? The great hall?"

He glanced down at a winding circle of sheets and towels, all in varying shades of blue and green, that encompassed the living room. Passing by, hot glue gun propped to his shoulder like a rifle, Baelfire said, "Moat."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night they had supper in the castle. Belle dimmed the lights and lit candles. Flames from the fireplace made long shadows dance. They sat cross-legged, eating from plates on the floor or propped on laps. Chloe sat, very upright beside Rumpelstiltskin, imploring with her eyes to his every bite of roasted hen. He licked his fingers, glancing at her. She raised a paw and tilted her head... _why not, Rumpel_? her face said.

Uninterested in chicken and roasted, root vegetables, the Sprets hid and played in their new kingdom. Egg perched on Killian's head, and Belle was surprised to see that he seemed to have grown used to being inhabited. (She'd earlier heard his voice through the bathroom door, "Egg... honestly, love. Sometimes a man needs his privacy to concentrate.")

Baelfire, as appropriate to his day, was in his cups. Belle observed that his tipsy-to-drunken state was much like his father's... he became quiet, eyes glassy and far away. Warmth came off of his body, Scotch seeming to burn within his cells. In another hour or so, he would fall into a thick sleep.

Already a little fuzzy-voiced, if not quite slurred, he asked, "How much of a pain in the ass is this Madam Mayor going to be for me?"

"Oh," Rumpelstiltskin mused, "A fair pain, I'd guess. I'd expect a bitch bite or two. Don't worry, son. I can take care of her."

Belle looked to Rumpelstiltskin, a bit alarmed. Candle light flickered over his face, his eyes alight and the hollows of his cheeks in deep shadow.

Baelfire, though hazy, seemed to share her thought. He said, "You mean, like...?" He circled his throat with both hands and pretended to strangle, eyes rolled back, tongue out.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled, his eyes showing delight at the idea. But he said, "Probably not. We'll see how it goes. But you needn't worry."

Egg crept from Killian's head and came to stand near Rumpelstiltskin's sock foot. A stripe of gold thread marked his toes, and she studied it with interest. One little thread had begin to unravel, glinting in firelight... furtively, she tried to get hold of it.

Setting his plate aside to let Chloe finish it, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Uh-oh, dearie." His hand landed beside Egg, fingertips perched on the floor, a big spider. He scurried it towards her, and she shrieked. She hid beneath a knee. He made the hand creep about his knee, fingers walking, and said, "Where is Egg? I smell a wee Spret." She squeaked from her hiding place, squealing again when the fingers came close.

Looking at Belle, Killian said, "You should really make some babies for the Crocodile. I never thought I'd see the day... I think my eyes have been damaged."

Rumpelstiltskin directed a nasty sneer to Killian, but continued to contentedly terrorize Egg. He kept his hand still for several moments; Egg became so jumpily attuned to its presence that she yelped and fled when he raised one finger, wiggling it at her.

Make babies, Belle considered. Well. She'd done nothing to prevent the making of babies, but so far all of the babies that came into her life seemed to be of a magical nature. And Rumpelstiltskin still went into a sort of rutting season when her moonblood arrived... She'd always found it out of keeping with the biological urge... it was supposed to be her least fertile time.

With a twinge of jealousy, she looked at Baelfire. Big and drunk as he was, he was Rumpelstiltskin's baby. And he'd gone and made one, himself. They, disjointed and divided, were a family.

She felt Rumpelstiltskin's hand touch hers.... his spider hand had walked over until his fingers played with her fingers. She looked up at him, and _knew_ he was aware of her thoughts. He seemed endlessly aware of her wanderings and tangents. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back, looking into her eyes. Closing his eyes, he turned her hand over and kissed the palm, lingering warmly in the kiss. Belle felt herself go soft and dreamy.

Close to his time of passing out, Baelfire said, " _Bleh_. Get outta my castle."

Opening his eyes, Rumpelstiltskin smiled. "It's _daddy's_ castle." he growled.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Belle's dream took her into the woods. It was forested land in Storybrooke rather than at home... the deer paths beat out around Rumpelstiltskin's home, covered in fallen leaves, faded to tea-stain and aged bone.

She didn't see herself, but was aware. Her vision took in the deeply defined prints of deer hooves, most small, but some tracks were enormous. Somewhere in the woods was a big stag.

Her path grew deeper, and then she saw Rumpelstiltskin. It startled her to see him as he was in this world... human skin and eyes. Suited, and dark in nature, he leaned against a tree trunk, feet crossed at the ankle. Concentrating, furrowed brow and hollowed cheek, he lit his pipe. He glanced at her, but then his eyes were downcast, smoke puffing as he worked.

Belle saw movement at his feet. It was like a rustling of leaves, a subtle movement of the ground. Her vision focused, and she saw that - in and among the leaves, seemingly part of them - were owls. They were of all sizes and types, and they were many. They were a long path on the forest floor, blending in and confusing her with their sudden presence.

They moved towards her, owls on the march. Mostly they were small; screech owls and burrowing owls. Even smaller, she saw Sprets moving along with them. They, too, were nearly hidden in the forest floor. Where a barred or great honed owl appeared, it dwarfed the others. The bigger ones stood out, drawing Belle's eye to recognize the smaller movement.

The collective march towards her took her by surprise, and she felt herself gasp and move back. Rumpelstiltskin looked up at her, something naked in his eyes. At her back-step, the owls all paused. The forest hung in hushed suspense, and then the owls all turned. They did an about-face. They retreated.

_No_ , Belle thought. Invisible to herself, she couldn't speak, though she struggled to do so. _I didn't mean it_ , she thought of her startled back-step. _Don't go_.

But the river of owls had their collective backs to her, and were going deeper into darkness, path narrowing to nothingness in the distance. She felt a welling of sorrow... surely they, the Sprets along with them, had come to her for a reason, a purpose. They thought she rejected them.

Rumpelstiltskin hadn't moved, but seemed suddenly close. His eyes swallowed her... his eyes and hair were like the shifting forest floor and the colors of owls. The silver in his hair shone like dragonfly wings.

He said, "Maybe they only want you to follow, dearie."

Belle looked past him, into the darkness. The path was nearly gone.

 

 


	26. Raise a Glass to the Good and the Evil

Belle's voice was uncharacteristically loud. She sang, at first semi-melodic, even sweetly, a song that had played in Ruby's car on the way home from the Rabbit Hole. "You make me weak..." she sing-songed, then she shouted, "I WANNA _DIE_!"

"Good gracious, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin said.

Belle was hammered. Ruby, just barely, held her upright, presenting her to her keeper.

"What on earth happened?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. Belle smiled at him, eyes flirtatious.

"You know how she dances." Ruby said.

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. It wasn't much of an answer.

"You make me _weeee-eeeek_..."

"Well, water was only sold in the bottle, and it was, like, two-something a bottle. These little, bitty bottles. But it was nickel beer night. She gets thirsty with all that dancing."

"I WANNA _DIE_!" Belle flung both arms out, sending curious Sprets flying. She was a rising star.

It sank in, and Rumpelstiltskin was rather appalled. Belle never drank. She could be half-drunk on magic at almost any given time. So open and dreamy... pouring beer into her seemed, perhaps, not the best idea.

Ruby transferred her charge, and - loudly - close to Belle's face, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Dearie. _You're rich_."

Belle snorted and broke into giggles.

"You can buy all the bottled water you want." To Ruby, he added, "As you well know, Ms. Lucas."

A little buzzed, herself, Ruby said, " _Hey_. Who put me in charge, here? Belle's a big girl."

"Watch it, missy." Rumpelstiltskin said with a snarl. "I'll tie you to a tree in the yard and let you bark at passing cars."

"Oh. Ha-ha." To Killian and Baelfire, both openly staring at Belle in morbid fascination, Ruby mock-explained, "Get it? Cause I'm a wolf?"

Rumpelstiltskin glared at her, and she said, "Well, I guess I'll be going."

"BYE, RUBY!"

"Um. Bye, Belle."

"BYE! OWWWWoooooohhhhhhh!"

Patting Belle on the head, Ruby made her exit. Turning back to Rumpelstiltskin, Belle became dizzy and lost her footing a little. He caught her as she started to go down. She said, " _Whoa_. Whoa, there. Hey, now."

"Indeed, dearie."

Hand to chin, Baelfire said, "I feel like I'm watching a documentary on weird, animal behaviors, or something."

"Sloshed animal behaviors?" Rumpelstiltskin gave him a look.

He shrugged, Killian still slack-jawed beside him.

" _You make me -_ "

"No, love. No more of that song. Surely you heard another, tonight."

Belle grew morose. It swept over her quite suddenly. She looked at Rumpelstiltskin with watery eyes and whisper-sang, " What have I gotta do to make you love me?"

"Ohhhh.... dearie, dear."

"Want me to make coffee?" Baelfire offered.

"Perhaps a glass of water." Baelfire headed to the kitchen as Belle crooned, "It's sad... so sad... Why can't we talk it over?" Her eyes and hands implored.

Rumpelstiltskin called, "And some aspirin."

He led Belle to the living room, where she plopped heavily and with little grace onto the loveseat. Then she grinned and pointed.

"Castle."

"Indeed. It 'tis."

Sprets began to peek from parapets and turrets. One stared at her from the hanging moon, and she gazed back at it, serenely.

Arriving with water and aspirin, Baelfire asked, "Has she ever been loaded before?"

"Not that I've seen. Spirit infected, yes. But not pissed."

Baelfire and Killian exchanged a glance at 'spirit infected', and Rumpelstiltskin sat down beside Belle. He put his arm around her, and she seemed newly surprised to see him. "Rumpel!"

She smiled, quickly becoming more coy than her norm. Repeating his name, she purred, " _Rumpel...."_

"Yes, sweetheart. Let's have some water and aspirin. Shall we?"

Accepting it, and still in a kitten-purr, Belle said, "I love you."

"I love you too, dearie."

Baelfire, uncomfortable, retreated into the interior workings of the castle. Killian, who seemed almost spooked by drunk-Belle, sat in a wing chair and continued to observe.

"You take care of me." Belle murmured.

"Aye. Remember the wee, plastic card I put in your pocket, dearie?"

"The money card!"

Rumpelstiltskin gave a small, pursed-lip smile. "Aye. The money card. Next time, _use_ it, love."

As if sharing a secret, somewhat stage-whispered in front of Killian, Belle said, "I wanted to try it."

"... Beer?"

She nodded, then looked a little green. She sipped water carefully. Her mouth wanted to elude her.

"Did you like it?"

"No. They said it was the 'king of beers', but it had a thin, metal taste. Obnoxious smell."

"Yet you continued to drink it."

"Well, it was a _nickel_."

Rumpelstiltskin put his hand over his eyes, and Killian said, "I'd wait for morning before you try and make logic work, mate."

" _Would_ you?" Rumpelstiltskin mustered a dark look, but didn't really have much else to offer Killian by way of festering hatred at that moment.

"Aye."

Rolling her head on the back of the loveseat, Belle looked at Killian. "Oh... Killian." she half-sang. She was too limp and numb to feel Rumpelstiltskin become tense. "Killian, Killian. Killian _Jones_."

"You've got it, love. That's me."

Baelfire returned. Like a giant, he stepped over the moat. It caught Belle's attention, and she gushed, "We should sleep in the castle!"

"I think you'd prefer your bed, love." Rumpelstiltskin said.

"No... we should _all_ sleep in the castle! The Sprets will keep us warm. A sleepover!"

Rumpelstiltskin snorted, derisive. He would never acquiesce to such a thing. It was enough that the pirate slept under his roof. And, apparently, with his son. He said, "It can hardly be considered a sleepover when everyone, to my dismay in some cases, is _living_ here."

Weakly slapping a hand against his chest, Belle said, "Oh, _you_."

"There you go with logic again, mate." Killian gave a rather feral smile to Belle's sloshed but inquiring gaze. To Rumpelstiltskin he said, "Just carry her off, spank her soundly and put her to bed. She'll thank you tomorrow."

"Oh, Kill." Baelfire looked horrified. " _Ugh_."

But Belle looked at Rumpelstiltskin, eyes aglow. Shyly, she murmured, "... I _was_ bad..."

"Jesus, Kill. Why? _Why_ do you do it?"

Killian chuckled, and Rumpelstiltskin was too preoccupied with the look in Belle's eyes to retort.

"Sometimes I know exactly what a lass needs." Killian murmured to Baelfire. "It's a gift."

It drew Belle's eyes to him. Spret-like, she shook her forefinger at him in a scold. There was a slight delay in the words meant to accompany the gesture... she eventually said, "Killian... you're so... _supercilious_."

"What the hell does that mean?" Baelfire asked him, voice low.

"No clue, mate. I think it has something to do with the way I look in me trousers."

It earned a renewed look of festering hatred from Rumpelstiltskin, and Belle rolled her eyes. She said, " _Rumpel_ used to always wear leather. You're not the only one to parade around in tight pants, Mister Tight Pants. You should _see_ -"

"You needn't, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin broke in, a bit warm at the face. Standing, he pulled Belle to her feet. When she wobbled, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She let out a squeal, then said, "Uh-oh."

Turning to face Baelfire and Killian, both of whom stared with a fairly non-sexual amazement at Belle's upturned bum, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Well gents, and I use the word loosely, pirate; I believe we'll retire."

When he turned around, Belle strained to look up at them. Her hair trailed the ground. "Be good!" she called. She pointed, making it a magical charge. As Rumpelstiltskin carried her down the hall, Killian and Baelfire exchanged another look. They heard her say, "Um, Rumpel? Maybe I'll throw up."

　

　

 


	27. Bad Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty MacFilthy stopped by for tea and porncakes. A discussion was had and the plot advanced not at all. But there was the cake.

In her bedroom, Belle groaned. The pressure of her midsection laying heavily over Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder sent a questionable message to her belly, but an urgent, undeniable message to her bladder.

"I have to pee, Rumpel."

"Okay, sweetheart."

"Hurry-hurry."

He set her down, and she swayed. Uncertain, he looked at her and said, "Do you need help?"

Her drunken giggle was an odd thing... part snort, part uncontrolled laughter. She pushed him, which nearly knocked her over, and said, "Gutter-head!"

Rumpelstiltskin sighed, not quite suppressing an eye-roll. Standing behind her, he held her shoulders and steered her to the bathroom. Reluctantly, he let her go. As she closed the door, he said, "Don't forget to pull your jeans down, dearie."

"I _know_." Belle said from behind the door.

Considering, he added, "Knickers, too."

Another snort, and then he was rather shocked to hear a high-volume gushing of liquid as well as a long, low groan that sounded suspiciously pleasured.

_Good lord_ , he thought. He went to the reading chair in Belle's bedroom. Chosen for her, its print was cabbage roses and fern... He needed to sit down. He remained seated through the flushing of the toilet, water running in the sink... inexplicable knocking about and uncharacteristic, feminine mutterings. Then the door opened and Belle seemed to spill out it, tripping over herself. She was bare from the waist down.

Rumpelstiltskin went instantly hard; the rush of blood happened in an instant, leaving him flushed and dizzy. The spillage of half naked girl, her little, triangle of pubic hair like a target, seared into his mind and left his eyes hot and heavy.

"You seem to have forgotten something, love."

"Oh, but..." Suddenly shy, her hands came to hide her little mound. Rumpelstiltskin felt another surge at his cock, an ache at his chest. Coming to him on unsteady fawn's feet, Belle said, "... You were going to spank me?"

She fell into his lap, curling up. She added, " I threw up a little, but I brushed my teeth. See?" She breathed on his face, and he pursed his lips at her, prim.

"I see. Quite minty."

His arms cradled her, hands sliding over bare flesh. He couldn't seem to stop his fingers from delving at her backside, between her legs. He found her already slick, and played there, watching her face. Both of her hands were propped at his chest, almost in an attitude of prayer, and her face was near his. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and her breath seemed suspended. He watched her as she stilled and simply _felt_ as his fingers worked her. Slippery teasing at her opening, soft circles around her clit; fingers whispered along plump lips and trailed wetness to her thighs.

"Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

" _Mmm_..."

It was interesting... he didn't see Belle as inhibited, not since their early days of learning one another. Yet it was very different to observe her inebriated state. She was perhaps more... selfish... in a way that excited him. She didn't bring pleasing him to conscious mind, but instead was quietly intense, greedily seeking his touch.

"You're very wet, dearie."

She sighed. Her knees were pressed together against his torso, but her bum was pushed out... hot, wet parts of her were open to him, and her hips rocked, slowly.

Teasing with long fingers, he asked, "Do you want a big cock, dearie? Sliding in and out of your pussy?" Speaking the words made him feel another wave of anticipation, a throb.

She sighed again, her eyes still closed. A smile played at her lips, and she said, ".... a _big_ cock..."

Well, _that_ was a little different. When it came to speaking, talking dirty, she actually _was_ a bit inhibited. Rumpelstiltskin felt himself grow feverish, his breath caught.

"Say it again, love."

Belle's eyes opened, hazy and questioning. He mouthed the word _cock_. Eyes alight with understanding, she said, "I want a _big_ cock, Rumpel."

" _Mmmm_.... Do you think mine is big enough for you?" He directed her hand down, and she gave him a squeeze through his trousers. He groaned, pushing against her. His fingers tickled against the backs of her thighs, teasing close to her sex.

"Yes, it's big." Belle purred. " I love it. I _want_ it."

Her eyes closed again, and she pouted, pushing her hips back, looking for his hand. Smiling, Rumpelstiltskin drew his fingers in a long caress towards her knees, away from the source of her angst.

"Rumpel..." she fretted.

"Mm? Something wrong, dearie?"

Opening her eyes, she looked at him. He was caught, falling into her gaze, her pupils wide and dark. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips softly to hers, then asked, " Did someone mention a spanking? Something about bad behavior?"

Snuggling to him, Belle said, "Yes. I did. That was me."

"Indeed?"

She nodded, her head to his shoulder, autumn hair laying all over his chest. He picked up strands of her hair, handfuls. She smelled of the Rabbit Hole, such a candy-sweet, night-time scent. Smoke and the high, poignant note of clove. And still, he could always catch her own, warm scent... beeswax, vanilla... these days usually with a touch of Spret magic, something scorched; cinnamon, dropped into fire, sparking.

His cradling arm dipped her back; he moved forward, kissing over her jaw and neck. Her scent was strongest there, and in her hair, and he tried to willfully drown in it. He would drown, too, between her legs... another source of scent, but much more raw. Sex and blood and _so_ hot. Blood kisses, voluptuous and melting. Thinking of getting his tongue inside her, nose pressed to dark curls, jaw stretched and lips shiny with her wetness, he felt his insides spasm.

Straightening, he said, "Lay over my lap, dearie."

In the past, this sort of play had carried a somber element. At least once, it wasn't playful at all. But now Belle let out a soft, little squeal. She was excited, and happily squirmed her way over. Rumpelstiltskin was left in a quietly wild, breathless state, Belle's naked arse offered up, her body draped over him. Her legs trailed down, a space at their apex revealing a shadowy blush of pussy.

He slid his hand inside her t-shirt, stroking over the warmth of her back, and tried to collect himself. Often, he didn't realize he felt starved until there was a glance, a small look. Then he wanted to eat her alive. He was well past that point, now... it was never enough.

For a time he played... fingertips touched lightly to her curvy, cheeky presentation. He felt her push her toes against the floor, trying to meet his fingers. He continued to deny both of them the gratification, only touching with ghost-softness.... her back, over her bum, along the sensitive backs of her legs. His other hand came to fist in her hair, and aggression grew within him.

It was endlessly peculiar... Rumpelstiltskin was always amazed to feel both worshipful, and yet harboring of a dark violence. The violence wasn't born of anger; it was born of blood. He yearned only to make Belle feel good; to be her lover, knowing her body like no other. And yet... his own desires surfaced, and could be brutal. His body ached with it, muscles tensed and cock an insistent, troubled pulse. He wanted to pull her hair, to slap pale flesh and watch it jiggle, redden and grow hot. More than anything, he wanted Belle's open mouth; her parted lips and her cries, gasping breath, a flush rising to her cheeks. He wanted to feel the drift of her spirit as she became overwhelmed. At times his violence seemed only to make her more wet... more receptive, needy. Her fingers might steal between her legs, and he could decide whether to watch her, gluttonous with his own hunger; or whether to hold her wrist, pull her hand away. Make her wait, teasing her anxious clit and making her blush all the more.

He loved the way she _belonged_ to him.

"I'm going to strike you now, Belle."

She made her little, excited sound again, pressing toes to floor, trying to give her body. To entice him to her sex. It made him smile... maybe he should encourage a little imbibing from time to time. Half naked Belle, appearing like a shockwave and asking to be spanked... it was too good.

He brought his hand down in a stinging slap, catching the fullness of one cheek, fingertips achingly close to her sex. She jumped and her flesh went immediately rosy, but the sound she made was pleasured. Perhaps, Rumpelstiltskin thought, her drunkenness had numbed her somewhat to pain. At times her desire, alone, did exactly that.

He slapped again, and again. It was difficult to be still, beneath her. His cock begged, as did her sex, and an impatient, bothered part of himself wanted to answer both. Belle, he noticed, inched her legs apart. She cried out with each slap, and with every cry he pulled on his fistful of her hair. She was drawn tight between his two hands... pulled taut and vibrating with sensation, held in suspense. With each pull to her hair, she sighed and moaned. She flinched when he gripped the flesh of one buttock, a hurtful grabbing of abused flesh. But as he gripped, he opened her. A whine formed in her throat, so desperately did she want his attention between her legs. She was soaking his trousers at his thigh, and his cock, his balls began to hurt. His mind was lost in a hot, red haze, and - harsh - he said, "You want your pussy fucked, don't you, dearie."

Belle made the whine again, and, in answer, he slapped her sex. It was a light slap, but her body jolted with it. She cried out in pleasure-pain, and he blazed to see her legs open wider. Fingertips in a steady tapping at her clit, he slapped. So wet. His hand, hot and stinging from slapping her arse, became slick with her sex. Pausing, making her writhe with need, he licked his palm, sucked his fingers. It made his lips ache for kissing hers, his tongue felt swollen, sensitive to her taste. Eyes closed, mouth open, he stroked his thumb over his lips, trying to ease the ache, the yearning. His breath came hard, heated tongue pressed to his bottom row of teeth.

"Gods, Belle." he groaned. "You make my fangs ache, love."

She _giggled_. An unlikely sound in all of the heat and need. " _Fangs_?"

Oh, ho. "Aye, dearie."

He gave her arse another slap, hard. He did it again, relishing her sharp cry, the jiggle of heart-shaped curves that played devilishly with her clit and spun filthy words in his head. Keeping his hand fisted in her hair, at the base of her skull, he said, "Up, dearie. On your feet."

Awkwardly, she complied. Using her hair as a leash, he walked her to the bed.

"Let's take this off." he suggested, pulling off her t-shirt, then reaching around to undo her bra. Breasts freed, he cupped and held them. He let his thumbs play over her nipples. He pinched her, making her nipples go dark and her breasts seemed to swell... but he could never bring himself to _slap_ her, there, any more than he could slap her face. Her body seemed delicate in places... her pussy, on the other hand, for its delicate folds and heightened nerve endings, could handle the brutality of his body... and want more.

He directed her to lay back, bum on the edge of the bed, along with her heels. Legs spread wide apart. _His_. His kitten, his toy. Taking off his belt, he went down on bended knee and slapped the tongue of it softly to her sex. He listened to her cries, soft and startled, then more intense. He watched all of the reactions of her body, fascinated. When her cries grew more insistent, her hips up-tilted and frozen there, he slapped harder. To his surprise, he made her come that way, her back arching and a flush racing over her chest.

Dropping the belt, he held her legs apart, amazed by the strength with which they tried to close. Holding her so, he was glued to the convulsing of her pussy. Seeing it nearly made him follow suit, his cock throbbing and jumping in his trousers. She was so swollen... red from arousal and from the belt, clit obvious and making a steady, regular jump as her pussy spasmed, open and closed, open again, shining with wetness. She dripped with it.

"Oh, _fuck_." he breathed.

His _fangs_... oh, his fangs. He bit her inner thigh, trying to quell the force inside himself. He wanted to behave as vampires in gothic novels. He wanted his cock in her cunt and his teeth sunk into her neck, drinking the hot gush of her as he fucked into hot, muscled, velvety slickness. He could die that way, and know nothing else.

Standing, he began to undress. Watching his hands at his shirt buttons, Belle closed her legs and rolled her knees to the side. She looked dreamy, half in trance, her eyes moving over him. She looked a little like his _other lover_ , the woman who'd spoken to him from Belle's body... it raised goosebumps along his spine.

"No, dearie." he murmured. Hands to her knees, he opened her legs again. She was calming, cooling. She wanted to curl up, but he still wanted to look at her.

And, oh... alcohol moved in her bloodstream, still. Legs open, her hands moved in a slow sweep over her belly and ribcage. She held and squeezed her breasts, and Rumpelstiltskin's vision darkened for a moment. It was very unlike her, and the visual of it, the softness of sensuality lingering at her face was arresting. Naked, he stroked himself a few times, one hand on her knee, watching her as she watched him.

He was aware of the pleasure she felt, watching him handle himself. An unexpected discovery. He used it, deliberately moving closer, one foot on the bed so that his cock was over her. He worked himself, slowly, so as not to come; hot and yet shivering under her gaze.

Abruptly, Belle turned the tables on him. She sat up, legs open but feet on the floor. As he stroked, she rubbed her face against his hand and cock. Rumpelstiltskin's mouth opened.... a sway took him so that he seemed as drunk as she. She was like a cat, rubbing, marking him as hers and getting his scent on her face. He let go of his cock and watched her, feeling her hands slide from his thighs to his hips... over his belly, around to his arse.

She placed little kisses at his lower belly, along the length of his cock... soft, sweet baby kisses... he could almost hear her purr, his body tensed in anticipation. She brushed her lips to the swollen, sensitive and needful head, then opened her mouth and lavished a wet, searching kiss over it.

With another sway, a moan, Rumpelstiltskin's hands came to her; one in her hair, the other cupping her jaw, touching her face. In her alcohol-softened state, she opened her eyes and lifted them to his.

It was agony. She held his eyes, her blue eyes wide and watching, yet full of a lust induced trance. Her head moved as she took more of him in, her mouth wet and lush, her tongue a note of wickedness, waking nerve endings and somehow sending little rushes of feeling to his insides. He trembled, hips rocking to meet the bob of her head, her eager mouth, and his pleasure was partly sensation, partly a shock of her acceptance.

It never seemed to stop; his disbelief that Belle would want him. He couldn't seem to step outside of thoughts of himself as both a monster and a weak man... that she wanted him, so; that her pussy wept for him, her mouth took him in and _devoured_... that she _watched_ him and was febrile in the watching; these things overwhelmed him, and in sly and yet muscular ways they tangled into physical sensation, into lust and biology. They thrived together, confused so as to become nearly the same. Her desire for him sparked his own, edgy lust; her acceptance of him, inside of her body, his scent _on_ her body, made his heart ache and his body trip into a place of lustrous rapture.

Baelfire was right; he was devout. He was a zealot.

Belle let him go, and tuned her head. She bit against his inner thigh, the leg he propped on the bed. It made him think of his own inner violence, the things he did to keep it in check. He wondered if it lived within her, and shivered.

He gripped her hair and pulled her back, roughly. It brought a sigh to her open lips, and - bending down - he kissed her. Tongue in her mouth, taking of her, he got two fingers inside her pussy and thrust, hard. _Gods_ , but she loved hard fucking... when she was close enough to the edge, she might grow impatient if he was gentle with her. He thought of the times she grabbed his arse, holding him and _using_ him, driving him into herself. It made him thrust his fingers into her harder, faster, drunk on her escalating cries. He drank them from her mouth, his tongue aggressive and fucking her as did his fingers.

She grew tighter, squeezing his fingers in place so that it was less of a thrust he made, more of a firm nuzzle, the heel of his hand in a grind against her clit. He was making her come again, he thought with a hot surging of blood. He pulled her hair, hard, dizzy with her loud cry as her head was angled back and he bit against her neck. His hand worked, and then he felt her body, the wet heat of her pussy push him out and gush liquid as she came.

Greedy, horny beyond reckoning, he let go of her hair and went to his knees. She struggled with him. The sharp climax, the angst at her clit and of her spasming muscles always made her want to bring her legs together, but he couldn't allow it. He needed to _see_ it again, the way orgasm convulsed her pussy... he felt it when he was inside of her, but hadn't seen it before he'd punished her with his belt. The seeing was forceful in his body. He watched, holding her thighs apart. Her heat, her cries... he licked over her, he sucked, jaw working, until he'd gone mad.

Then he was on the bed, his body covering hers, mated to her. She cried out and flung her arms around him as his cock slid inside her. His arms completely enfolded her, crossed beneath her body. He held her close, face to her neck, in her hair where he engulfed himself in her scent. He was covered in the scent of her pussy, and his vision was lost completely in a crimson haze of bloodlust. A growl deep in his chest, he fucked her... mindless, animal rutting; _hard, hard, hard_.

Her body wrapped around him as her sex milked and squeezed at his cock, and Rumpelstiltskin felt lost in the movement of his body... it felt as if something _moved_ him. Blood loud in his ears, distantly aware of the bed moving on the hardwood floor, he bit against Belle's jaw and moaned, low and helpless, as he spurted hotly into her. It seemed to go on and on, his body convulsing, as he'd seen of her; pleasure so intense at his pelvic floor; spiraling up his spine and draining slowly down the backs of his thighs. His breath was ragged, as was Belle's, and when he moved to kiss her, he was surprised by his weakness.

"I love you." he murmured, holding her face and giving her soft kisses. Her cheeks were rosy red, her lips hot to touch.

"I love you, too." she whispered.

　

　

 


	28. Even Pirates Get the Blues

Belle dreamt again of the path of owls, Rumpelstiltskin at his tree. This time, Gizzard appeared at her shoulder. His little, furry arm reached out and pointed into the distance, where the leaf colored owls retreated. " _Look_." said his little rasp of a voice.

Belle was more aware of herself, more solid than in her first dream. She moved towards Rumpelstiltskin, who watched her and seemed to await her, a smile playing at his lips. Her hand reached to pet Gizzard, who purred his calm into her. She followed the path of his pointing finger, and she saw... Rumpelstiltskin. The _other_ one. There he was, further into darkness, standing at his own tree. Poison berries and dark, blade like leaves... a cemetery yew. His skin that could glimmer like mica gave off a soft luminescence. Moths fluttered to him, light starved, not realizing they yearned to the Dark One.

He looked down at a cat's cradle of spun, golden thread. As she stared at him, a harsh longing in her belly, he looked up. His animal eyes lit with the sight of her, and he smiled his imp's smile. Belle's heart slipped into an arrhythmic pattern, and she looked to Rumpelstiltskin, her lover in this world.

He wouldn't look at himself.... he wouldn't acknowledge the imp. But Belle was caught between the two, tethered to both. The owls disappeared, leaving her with a sense of loss.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Killian's naughty look could come as no surprise. Hung over, a new and unpleasant feeling, Belle could hardly bring herself to react. She was surprised that her beer-infused blood could even begin to be perturbed, but it rose to the occasion, leaving her blushing under Killian's insinuating gaze.

Both Baelfire and Rumpelstiltskin were gone, up with the sun and out into the world. Belle had a more difficult time rising, Egg's insistent poking at her notwithstanding. The nauseous, headachy feeling that lingered made her wonder why anyone would drink, ever. It was like a Spret tried to push her eyeballs out from the inside. She couldn't get her head clear, and there was a gritty, grimy feeling about her insides. She sat on the love seat, feet tucked beneath her, and sipped coffee. She felt as she supposed zombies must feel, newly risen from the dirt... she wondered why she was up and walking around when, clearly, she was a corpse in an advanced state of decay.

" _Bean_." Killian came to sit beside her, evidently not overly discerning regarding the living and the revenant. He was all dirty boy. He seemed rather happy about her present state of regret, and it irritated her.

"It would seem daddy took care of you, good and proper." he smiled. He made wicked eyes over his own cup, and his hook was... was it scratching in his chest hair? It tugged his shirt open a bit... maybe he had fleas. Or nits.

"Oh, thou." Belle said, a bit thick. "Thou and thy ways."

He gave a brow raise, then said, "I'm jealous, Bean. I act up _all_ the time, but no one _ever_ puts me over the knee."

Belle gave a dry look. The look was a cover up, for Killian's poking about in her once private life brought the feeling her evening rushing back her, a sharp recall through the hangover fog. Her blush intensified, her body reliving it. It was uncomfortable to feel her arousal while Killian, overly interested, was sitting beside her.

"Well," she mused. "You've been successful at provoking Rumpel to beat you."

She'd thought it might redirect Killian, bring about a scowl. But, no. She was his entire focus, and his eyes kept their mischievously lustful gleam.

"Oh, that's hardly the same." his purr was somehow dismissive, and yet still a purr. "It's not the blistering hatred and contempt one wants... " Smile amping up to hitherto unknown levels of dirty, he said, "It's the _firm hand_. The discipline. And whatever the devil happened that seemed to make your bed walk across the floor. _That's_ what's wanted, Butterbean. And for many of us, sadly lacking. Honestly, love... Does he have a _magic_ dick?"

Gizzard climbed up the love seat and turned dark eyes on Killian. He didn't reprimand, and yet it seemed to have a settling effect on Killian. He calmed somewhat, smile settling down a few notches to become only mildly incendiary. Gizzard perched on Belle's thigh, keeping an eye on him. She stroked his head, feeling the small motor of his purr, and wondered about her dream.

"Killian?" she eventually said. "Do you ever... I don't know. Date?"

"Are you asking me out, love?"

Belle gave a look, and Killian said, "No, I suppose that jealous husband of yours would be a problem."

Belle felt herself color, and murmured, "Rumpel's not my husband."

"Righhhht." Killian said with an eye-roll.

"But do you?" Belle asked. "I mean.. something other than flirting, or whatever you do with rich women?"

He looked at her in frank surprise, and gave a mocking fluttering of eyelashes. "What the devil are you saying, Butterbean?"

Belle hesitated. Maybe she wasn't supposed to know. Speaking for her, Gizzard said, "Kill-ann whores. Bae said."

Killian's eyes stared at Gizzard, wide and frozen, then lifted to Belle. She very much wanted to backtrack... a mistake had been made.

" _Bae_ said?" he repeated. Belle was surprised to see that he blushed.

Holding a fingertip to Gizzard's head, seeking stability and also willing him to keep quiet, she said, "Not like that, Killian. Baelfire didn't call you... that."

"A whore?"

She shook her head. "Mm-mm. No. I just... I asked him if you worked. But.. Killian. I wasn't trying to bring this up. I only wondered if you ever tried to take steps _away_ from Bae. To be with someone you could really... _be_ with."

He looked away from her, and Belle felt aggrieved to have so rattled him. She _had_ wished his bad boy persona would temper down, but she hadn't wanted to wound him.

A bit vague, he said, "Aye. I try, now and again."

"And?" Belle prompted.

He looked at her again, and she was dismayed to see that his eyes... her ability to see _inside_ him had been cut off. There was a hardness in his eyes. For all of his playing and inappropriateness, he hadn't seemed closed to her, before. If anything, he'd seemed too open, thoughts and feelings spilling out, getting into places where they didn't belong. The closing off of accessibility was a feeling of closing a door on the boy; only the hard shell of the man was left.

He shrugged. "And. Nothing. There's sex. Comfort, sometimes. Nothing really takes hold."

Belle was quiet. She felt a terrible need to repair the hurt caused by Gizzard's words, and yet she wrestled with the surprise that Killian felt so hurt. She'd thought him immune to almost any slur, especially as regards sexuality. His willingness to reveal parts of himself while his curiosity ran amok in the sexuality of others had fooled her.

... Maybe the hurt was simply because the words had come from Baelfire.

Stretching out her leg, she rubbed the bottom of her bare foot against his hip. With Rumpelstiltskin, even with Ruby, such a gesture came naturally to her. Sensitive to energy, drawn to comfort and to try and heal, she'd found herself inclined to touch. She tried to permeate others with warmth and calm as Gizzard did for her.

With Killian, however, the gesture did not come with ease. She was conflicted, and very aware of how Rumpelstiltskin would feel. She was also aware that Killian, attention seeking as he could be, might see her touch in a way not dissimilar to Rumpelstiltskin. It was with deliberation and care that she extended herself, purposefully offering foot instead of hand.

Killian stared at his coffee cup while her foot moved against him, eventually setting aside.

"I'm alright, Bean."

"I know." Belle lied.

"You know," Killian said, "The sort of people I meet... the ones attracted to me... I can get down to their level. But they can't get up to mine."

Belle frowned. "That's sort of snobbish, isn't it."

He shrugged again. "Aye, maybe. But it's true. The people who are like Bae... they don't see me."

"... But.." Belle said. "Bae _sees_ you, Killian. He cares for you."

Gizzard scaled her blouse to perch at her shoulder, and he helped her. He _hummed_ into her, and she felt his warmth, his strange magic flow into her limbs and heat up her middle. It eased her head and belly, and filled her mind with rustling whispers.

Also, it flowed into Killian. Belle wanted to fix him, to repair what it seemed she'd rather casually torn apart with a few, thoughtless words. To her surprise, the warmth Gizzard sent her, that she transferred to Killian, seemed to break him even more. He didn't make any sound, but his hand covered his face and his shoulders shook.

She felt Gizzard rev up, his purr high and loud. Magic moved with greater force. Alarmed, she breathed, "Killian?"

He shook his head, then abruptly swiveled his body, laying his head in her lap.

With anyone else, she would have held and pet at once. With Killian, she had to pause. She stared down at him, horrified to have brought him to this state, wretched with his pain. Finally, she stroked his back, breathing through her mouth; shallow, careful breaths. She stroked his hair.

She said, "It'll be alright. Hush, now."

Eyes squeezed shut, Gizzard said, " Shhhh... Be right."

　

 


	29. Baelfire of Middle Earth

Baelfire met Emma in the same park where he'd first seen Henry. Watching her walk up to him... her long and sure stride as he slouched on a bench... it was still a lot to take in. She wore a badge and carried a gun.

So... _that_ was bracing. The sight of Emma, holstered, caused him to sit up straight. He _should_ be sitting up straight, anyway. He was a father, he was meeting his son. Now was not the time for slouching, hoodies and run-away insecurities.

"Okay, Cassidy." Emma said, sitting down beside him. "I've had the talk. I've been lectured by a ten year old boy for lying to him about you. For the time being, I've encouraged him to lie to his other mother, as you might expect of an ethical, healthily functioning, biological mother. So, he'll be here shortly, probably as stressed out as a kid can be. After meeting you, he'll go to school for the day to try and concentrate on learning. Long story short, it's a good thing the kid's already in therapy."

Was she... giving him report? Baelfire stared at Emma through her speech with ever-widening eyes, then said, "Well... can _I_ be in therapy?"

Crossing her arms across her chest, she gave a dry look.

"But seriously," he said, "There were no _therapists_ in the Enchanted Forest. How does this cross-over thing work?"

"Okay. Here he comes."

There it was again, all of the body's system failures. Baelfire began to feel that his time working in the county hospital was regrettable. Familiarity with the terminology made him overly aware of stress raising his blood pressure, compressing his diaphragm. His breathing was shallow, his belly tensed. He would have to spend the rest of his life contemplating oneness with spirit while in a lotus position to undo the damage stress had done his body thus far.

And -honestly, he thought - what he was doing, now, was far more stressful than the Dark One, travel by bean, lost boys reenacting 'Lord of the Flies' or living, penniless, in the city. What if Henry thought he was crap? What if he was hoping for more of a Wolverine father figure? Or someone like Emma's father?

Baelfire watched Henry's approach, but Henry was studiously watching his own feet. The boy was loaded down with a back-pack that was bigger than he was... it was like an army exercise.

Emma murmured, "Buck up, Neal. Don't be scared. He wants to know his dad, and he's going to want to think you're great... no matter your own thoughts on the subject."

He glanced at her. Of course she was aware of the galactic freak-out happening inside him. How could she not be?

Henry came level to them, and - with dog-like caution - he raised his eyes.

"Henry," Emma said. "This is - "

"I know. My dad." Henry said.

Baelfire stared. He was taken aback by the young-boy chirp of Henry's voice. The words, from the boy's mouth, made his bones feel like jelly. He didn't know what he could say to this short person. Hi. How's it going? How about that _math_? When no one said anything, Henry gave an uncertain look and asked, "Right?"

Emma nudged Baelfire in the ribs. He said, " _Right_. Yeah. That's right. It's good to finally meet you, Henry."

Carefully polite, Henry said, "You too." His face didn't give away much. "Your name is Neal?"

Baelfire nodded. Then he said, "It's really Baelfire."

He felt Emma turn to him, and he shrugged for her sake. "I went by Neal when I came here, to this world. But I've been staying with my father... I've kind of gotten used to being called Bae, again."

Henry's face lit up, and he said, " _Baelfire_. That's so cool."

Emma said, "Geez, Neal. Why don't you just tell the kid your name is Gandalf, or Aragorn or something?"

Back to bracing his forearms heavily on his thighs, Baelfire said, "Well, it _is_ my name, Em."

"Whatever, Cassidy."

Henry smiled, and said, "You two sound, you know, like a couple."

"Oh, Henry." Emma sighed.

Baelfire cleared his throat, and said, " I'd like to get together sometime, if you're up for it. Do something you'd like to do. What do you like to do?"

At that, Henry appeared to be a bit lost. "I don't know." he said. "I don't hang around other people that much. I mostly read and play games."

"What about..." Baelfire looked at Emma, considering. He said, "If it's okay with your mom, I could bring you to my father's house. We kind of apprehended his living room and turned it into a castle."

Henry's smile turned into a grin, and Baelfire was momentarily struck with the image of his own eyes and his father's expression.

Emma said, "Seriously? The _lair_ of the Dark One? Off to the Evil Empire with freaking Legolas?"

"Those are two different movies, mom."

Baelfire chuckled, blatantly using Emma's disapproval to show Henry they were on the same team. Dysfunction came to him so readily, it was breathtaking. "Yeah, _mom."_ he said.

"Could I?" Henry asked. "I mean, let's face it. I'm already dealing with the Evil Queen, as far as being exposed to things beyond my age restriction goes. And, I guess, Mr. Gold _is_ my grandfather. Right? I'm pretty much surrounded by villains. I may as well get used to it."

Baelfire laughed, leaning back and oddly delighted. Emma said, "Oh.... kid. Regina would kill us both. A lot. And then some."

To further entice, Baelfire said, "There are these little things living at my father's house. They're hard to explain. They're like little faerie people, but they're furry and they don't have wings."

Wide-eyed, voice boyishly loud with disbelief, Henry said, " _What_?"

Echoing Henry, Emma said, "What....? Neal, are you... _perhaps_ , talking about an infestation of _mice_?"

"No. For real. They're these little faerie things. Apparently they got loosed over here just before the Curse broke."

"Neal..."

"I'm not making it up." Belfire insisted. "One of them even hangs out with my father, in town."

She gave him a look of extreme doubt, but Henry said, "Mom, you _have_ to let me go!"

Emma looked flustered and put upon, and Baelfire thought; wow. With pretty much zero effort, he'd created a scenario of an indulgent, not-entirely-grown father and a mother stuck being the disciplinarian. He felt, however, the blame lay at least partly with Emma... she showed up with a _gun_.

Back-peddling a bit, he said, "Let's respect your mom's decision, Henry. And there's no hurry. I'm not going anywhere."

Henry's face looked so openly relieved at that statement, Baelfire felt himself go briefly numb. It was followed by a painful tingling in his limbs and chest, and he wondered what medical mayhem was taking place, now.

Emma said, "Let me think about it, kid. We've got to figure your other mom into the picture. For now, you'd better head to class."

"Okay." Henry agreed. He heaved his giant book-bag from the ground and hoisted it over his shoulder. Baelfire worried he would just fall backwards... at least the book-bag would be there for him to land on.

"It was nice to meet you... Baelfire." Henry said.

"You too, Henry. Good to meet you, really. Looking forward to hanging out."

Henry broke into his impish grin, then turned to head to school.

Baelfire could _feel_ a force field of sorts, building up around Emma and aimed at himself. Sitting up, he turned to face her. He was met with her steady, green gaze and was treated to a shifting of her hips and a teasing of holster. Yes, it was just a little different from ponytails and glasses.

She said, "I see you went with, 'Good to meet you'. Not, 'Well met, valiant knight'. Or something."

"I can't help it if he likes adventure stuff. Magic stuff. Look where he lives. Look at his _grandparents_... _all_ of them."

"Yeah, fine. But Neal, you told him you're not going anywhere."

Spine as straight as he thought it could be, Baelfire said, "I'm not."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Emma. I'm sure. I'm not leaving my son."

A strange look went over her face, and Baelfire thought... yeah. The words were weird for him, too. But they were true.

"Think about letting him come over."

"To play in a castle with the Dark One?"

Shrugging, he said, "I don't know. He might be there. He won't hurt Henry."

Emma sighed. Standing, she said, " _Baelfire_. For crying out loud. Might as well say, 'Hi, I'm Thorin Oakenshield..' Now he thinks he's the son of Almighty Zeus."

Hand to his chest, Baelfire asked, "Are you calling me a _god_?"

With a smirk, Emma turned to go back to her... police vehicle. She wasn't the only one who could smirk and roll the eyes, he thought.

Over her shoulder, she said, "See you, _Baelfire_."

"Hey, Emma," he called, pointing to the Sheriff's car. " _Now_ who's gone to the dark side?"

　

　

　

 


	30. Change

Baelfire was full of crackling energy. He couldn't be still. He paced around, room to room, then stalked about the living room castle, attracting the attention of Sprets. He unsettled them, and they followed his movements.

Standing just outside of the kitchen, Rumpelstiltskin leaned against a wall with his arms across his chest, watching. He felt change. It moved about the house, so newly inhabited by extra people and tribes of Sprets. It swirled around his ankles like thoughts of Chloe, and whispered, _I'm already here_.

From within the castle, he heard the pirate ask, " But... who _is_ this Mother Goose, Bean?"

Voice mysterious and spooky, Belle answered, " _Nobody knows_."

He smiled in spite of himself. Belle.

Somewhere, there had been a misstep. She was meant to see the pirate as he did, and to be part of a united front when it came to the loathing of and general disassociation with Jones. Even if she didn't advocate the killing of him, something which Rumpelstiltskin sometimes fantasized in a manner most glorious.

It hadn't happened. He felt her loyalty to him, but somehow the pirate had become her overgrown child and play companion. Rumpelstiltskin had had a bit of a temper about it, as it aggravated him like a burr beneath his saddle.... That the idiot could get his bloody hook in both Bae and Belle.... and how? The _how_ of it gnawed at him. The man he saw as brash, self-centered and selfish, ridiculous and overblown, and - in _bitter_ memory - cruel and unfeeling; a man for whom he had no respect had made alliances with his former wife, with his son and now with Belle.

The thought made his bile rise, and as he'd become ever more aware of the pirate's attachment to Belle, and her growing affection for him, he'd aimed his ire at her. There was a deeply sarcastic moment wherein he expressed his concern that perhaps the very empathic were, by their nature, unfaithful. He didn't believe it of Belle, but he said it anyway, hatred for the pirate fueling distrust. And then, in mid-verbal tussle, she'd said, "Oh, Rumpel... He's so _sad_. Gizzard and I made him _cry._ Don't ask me to withdraw friendship from him when he's so _lonely_."

Blank faced, he'd stared at her. It took a moment to sink in, and then he'd felt an incredulous smile dawn on his face.

"You made him _cry_?" _Belle_ made the pirate cry?

Belle looked both cautious and suspicious. "Rumpel... don't."

But he couldn't help it. He'd laughed. It just bubbled up, the energy of anger still alive and well, but somehow transformed into laughter that came from his belly and erupted joyously. _He_ might cry, as well. The picture of Belle, before him, hands on hips and looking very cross only made it worse. He'd looked to the ceiling, laughter unstoppable and escaping him with a feeling of profound relief.

He'd cried in front of the pirate, once, and the memory of it had long burned in his cells. He often felt the only way it could be erased was with the death of Jones. Probably still true, but... this wasn't bad.

Laughing still, feeling it wind down into little gasps, little burps of laughter, he'd staggered to Belle's reading chair. Now the scene of something highly erotic, it gave off an aura of naughtiness and seduction, all on its own. Rumpelstiltskin had collapsed into it, hand over his eyes, trying to settle down.

"Rumpel, that's awful."

"Really dearie?" he hadn't been able to stop his smile." You _know_ I could do so much worse than laugh at his tears." He'd bubbled up again at the word, 'tears'. Poor, little pirate. Maybe what he'd really wanted, all this time, was the pirate's tears. His sorrow. Hardship. Evidence both that he could be unmanned and that his life had exacted a price for his former actions.

In a slow sidle, as if she'd swished the skirts of one of her old dresses, Belle had approached. With deliberation, she'd given him a light kick on the shin. It didn't hurt in the least, but - smiling - he'd said, "Ow."

"You're so rotten." she'd said.

In answer, he'd pulled her onto his lap. He'd hugged her. "Tell me, dearie," he'd murmured, "Tell me the story of how you made the pirate cry."

"I will _not_." she'd huffed.

But she had, eventually. He was good at coercing. There had been another fit of laughter, done under Belle's stern disapproval. "You can spank me, later, dearie." he'd pouted at her. As she'd done before, she said, "You wish." She'd frowned. It was heartbreakingly cute.

He _did_ sort of wish. He was also more calm. There was a mean, and what he felt was a justified satisfaction in knowing the sorry state of Jones' life. There was even a testosterone fueled, jeering glee in knowing that the pirate was attracted to men as well as women... his fondest affection _unrequited_. Another assurance of the pirate's unmanning, which Baelfire would surely identify as phobic. It made Rumpelstiltskin feel light and happy.

These things made Jones less large. What had happened on his ship, even before the Dark One's curse was upon Rumpelstiltskin, had been _large_. Opera large, with flying devils, howling Valkyries and what-not... Milah's betrayal, his own fear and tearful begging on Baelfire's behalf, and Jones' heartless, humiliating response. The large of it was so grand, it was near impossible to live with.

But here was that same man, following Belle - his minder - around like a puppy. She'd made him _cry_. _Gizzard_ had made him cry. Though Rumpelstiltskin couldn't find it within himself to like the pirate, his view was somewhat altered. It was steadied, so that Jones was only a man. More than that, he was a confused boy in a man's body... and if he was lonely, sad; it was no more than the path he'd made for himself.

.... And then... there he was. Ugh. Even moderately more tolerant, Rumpelstiltskin didn't care to actually _look_ at Jones. He emerged from the castle, that little Egg on his shoulder, and Belle appeared behind him. Looking at Baelfire's aimless stalk, Jones said, "Alright, Bae?"

"Yeah, yeah." Baelfire rubbed his hands together in his restlessness.

There it was again. In the rubbing of Baelfire's hands, Rumpelstiltskin saw change. Alive, and in the room with them. It made waves, like sound waves, coming from the motion of his son's hands. It spread outward, to encompass all.

Baelfire, who abstained from hope, was having visions. He was projecting, forecasting. Rumpelstiltskin could almost see the visions.... the pretty, blonde woman in Baelfire's bed, her unflinching exterior dropped for his sake; and the green-eyed boy who walked with him, making plans. Making changes.

Belle approached Rumpelstiltskin, and he felt his face relax and smile. Gizzard popped out of her hair and came to him, settling to his shoulder.

"Having fun playing, children?" he asked of both, but looked at Belle. She smiled, and Gizzard said, "Aye, Wumpelss."

Gizzard might know, he thought. The change... it was more than Baelfire's new family, although that was plenty.... Truly, he was a grandfather. To Belle, Baelfire had playfully asked, "So, what do you want Henry to call you? Grandma? Granny? Nanna?" Her startled look of confusion and dawning comprehension had made Baelfire laugh. "Maybe just 'Belle'. " he'd amended.

"I think that would be best." she'd agreed.

"Have him call her 'Bean'." Jones had suggested, but Baelfire said, "No, Kill. That's your thing, and no one understands you."

"Don't I know it, mate."

.... Which had gotten a sharp look from Rumpelstiltskin. The pirate was borrowing her phrases, now?

He would talk to Gizzard, he thought.... maybe walk in the cold woods. Somewhere, there was a door edging open, and it wasn't clear if he was meant to go through, or if something was peering in through it's other side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I get in Rumpel's head and have him refer to Killian as 'Jones'.... I can't help it, I hear 'Indiana'. Then, suddenly, Rumpel is the evil, French archaeologist, Belloq, gritting his teeth, shaking his fist and growling, "Jones!"


	31. Confession

Baelfire's pacing and Belle's babysitting of Killian gave way to a loose gathering at the kitchen table.

"We're always in here." Baelfire observed. "You've got that big-assed table in a fancy dining room... with sideboards and stuff I don't know by name... but we're always in here."

Belle said, "It was the same at the Dark Castle. The kitchen is cozier."

Killian had not truly joined the group. As Baelfire settled down, his restlessness had transferred.... Killian paced the periphery. He stared at the deep dip of the sun outside the broad kitchen window; he left the kitchen altogether, stalking about and listening to Egg's occasional, whispered commentary.

From the foyer he said, "You found the Dark Castle _cozy_?"

"I did." Belle smiled at Rumpelstiltskin. His eyes were warm.

"Bean, you're _such_ a Wednesday Adams."

Somewhat familiar with the reference, Belle found it rather pleased her. Still smiling at Rumpelstiltskin, she lowered her voice and said, " _My thoughts... turn to homicide_."

He snickered, giving her a look as though she'd proposed something profoundly dirty. Baelfire said, "See? It would be more cute if it was less terrifying."

"Honestly, Bae." Rumpelstiltskin said, "As if Belle would ever hurt.... anything."

Touring through the kitchen and then out again, Killian said, "This is true. Bean catches spiders in jars and escorts them outside, where she releases them. She tells them, ' Stay out here; alright? It's better eating.' " His voice was that of a schoolmarm speaking to very young children.

"Oh, hush." Belle murmured, and Killian chuckled from the other room. Egg's tiny voice said, "Oh, Bean."

They grew quiet. Outside, the sun was low; orange-gold. A strip of deep red sky showed through the trees, near to earth. Above, all was deepening into dark blue, here and there a cloudy sweep of twilight. Shadows grew long in the house, but no one turned on a light.

Gizzard, at Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, used his long hair as a climbing rope. The Spret settled near his ear and whispered, and Belle watched Rumpelstiltskin's face. He looked inward, sometimes shaking his head a little, perhaps negating. His hands were steepled, elbows on the table, and - once - he leaned his forehead to his fingertips, eyes closed.

Belle felt the atmosphere changing. It was natural, the house darkening with the dying of the day... An almost liquid spill of amber light fell low in the kitchen window, pooling on the floor but giving way to deep blue shadows in the corners and on the ceiling.

It was natural, but began to feel supernatural. Scent changed... a scent of old roses, beginning to decay in a vase; a green algae and dewy, watery scent alerted Belle to spirit, making its sneaky way into the kitchen. Dream scents manifested; the wood smoke, smoldering ashes and crackling fire that marked both Baelfire and Rumpelstiltskin. Killian ambled back to lean against the kitchen counter, looking at the three, shadowy specters at the table. Belle scented his soft, worn leather and the light, sweet almond scent of rum. His ghost scents, the goddess-marks upon him followed; wild ginger, buttercream, black narcissus.

Quietly, he asked, "What's going on, Bean? What's in here?"

"I don't know." Belle said, and Baelfire shifted, uncomfortable.

"Pop?"

Rumpelstiltskin sighed, and said, "I have to say something to you."

"Okay."

Rumpelstiltskin remained quiet, and Gizzard moved back down to his shoulder. The sun sank quickly, once below the tree-line. The gold pool on the floor dwindled to a faint shimmer, and Belle could barely see her housemates. Light that was barely even light, periwinkle and lavender, glowed at the window and occasionally caught the whites of eyes. Against the light, silhouetted at the window, Killian was a black shadow.

Rumpelstiltskin said, "I killed your mother."

Baelfire said, "I know." But Belle heard his quick intake of breath before his words were spoken. She felt a hot wave of repressed energy simmer about Killian.

"I was very wounded by Milah." Rumpelstiltskin murmured. "Long before... When you were a baby, she told me she would rather I'd died in the war than come home, branded a coward. Come back to the two of you. Nearly every decision I made, she saw as limiting, even wasting her life."

Voice quiet, Baelfire said, "Yeah. I know. I was around for some of that."

Rumpelstiltskin sighed again, and said, "When she chose..." Belle felt, rather than really saw his eyes move briefly to Killian. The heat that shifted about Killian was a momentary connection between the two. It was a hurtful connection, and Belle flinched. It resettled around Killian, alone.

"When she chose _him_ ," Rumpelstiltskin managed, "She chose leaving you. She was sorry... that was her regret; leaving you. But it was still what she chose. I couldn't accept it, and I returned to her; _cursed_. Every part of me that had once been frightened had become... _so angry_. And so _bloodthirsty_. She told me, then, that she'd never loved me."

He went quiet again, and Belle felt very strange, as if not even in her body. She felt far away... alarmed, but watching her alarm at a distance. The fact was that she hadn't known. Since the arrival of Killian and Baelfire, there had been implications... somewhat veiled or half-spoken accusations and threats... But Rumpelstiltskin had only ever told her that he _lost_ Milah, as he'd lost Baelfire. More recently he'd told her Killian was responsible for her death.

In a way, it wasn't exactly a lie. Nor had it been the truth. The words still sat with her, vibrated within her. Baelfire had gasped to hear his father speak the words aloud, but Belle had frozen. _I killed your mother_. He'd killed, murdered his wife. She was visited with a very alien feeling that she might not know Rumpelstiltskin. Perhaps she should fear him.

He said, "I saw red, Bae. I held her heart to scare her. To show her my power. But when she was defiant to the end, seeking to _protect_ the pirate and to keep the life she had with him... and then she spoke those words... I just... reacted. I can only tell you that I wanted her in pain... I didn't even think as far as death. I wanted to crush her defiance... I wanted the pirate hurt and punished, and unable to help her. Save her. When I did it, I wasn't sorry... I don't know, Bae, if I'm truly sorry, now. For your sake, I am. I'm sorry to have taken her from you, and to have brought the Dark One into your life. I'm sorry I've lied to you. But I can't feel differently about Milah, or the pirate... and so... I can't ask for your forgiveness."

Baelfire didn't offer it, and Belle was stuck. _Stuck in wallet_ , she thought, remembering when Gizzard first arrived. She wanted more than one thing, all of it in conflict. She wished Baelfire would forgive Rumpelstiltskin, and yet her shock at his confession was great. What if her father had killed her mother? What if he'd chosen power over _her_? And then, confused, she thought - well - he _had_ chosen power over her. She didn't know with certainty if he'd ever killed another, but he'd _ordered_ others killed. Growing up, she'd never questioned his goodness. His rightness.

She loved a man who had killed his wife. It didn't feel real.

After a long while, the darkness becoming true, Baelfire said, "Thanks, Pop."

"For what, son?"

"For saying it. For telling the truth."

Rumpelstiltskin sounded miserable, and Belle could understand why he might not be a fan of the truth. He said, "Aye."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was as if they'd all come to fear the light. After such truth, the rawness of it touching all three men, each of them connected by it, the light was too harsh a thing to consider. Perhaps, Belle thought, no one wanted to look, or to be looked at by another.

The truth had touched her as well. It was a new face of her lover. It was also a new part of herself. As she had in the past, she wondered at herself... The forgiveness that Baelfire didn't offer already pooled within her. It worked in her, looking for a way to Rumpelstiltskin. What sort of woman _was_ she, that she was so understanding of the all of the evil he'd done? Often her sympathy lay with him. Though she hadn't known the truth of Milah, she'd certainly known that Rumpelstiltskin was no stranger to murder. To lies. She'd always known these things, and had loved him, anyway. Maybe Killian was right... she was Wednesday Adams. _Come sorrow; we welcome thee._ Maybe there was darkness inside of her, and it answered to his... the knowledge of the Goblin Queen.

And yet, it was also true that she wouldn't kill... anything. She wouldn't purposefully harm. While Rumpelstiltskin had learned magic that allowed him to tear a living heart from another's body, she tried to heal with her little cache of magic. Maybe she tried to heal _him_ , she thought, and wondered if the notion was futile. Her body went tight... if she turned her back on him, if she denied her love... it would only hurt him. It would breed darkness. The thought made her feel sick.

Turning on the stove light at a dim setting, Belle put together a light supper of sliced pears and sharp cheese, crusty bread with butter. They ate in silence in the near-dark, Gizzard and Egg sharing in the pear and sometimes dipping tiny fingers into the butter. Spret prints.

A bit shocking in the silence, the mood, Killian asked, "Was there more? It feels like there's something with us, in the house." Looking at Belle, he said, "You feel it; don't you, love?"

Belle nodded, and Rumpelstiltskin said, "Aye. But I don't yet know what it is."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Killian found he no longer cared to be cautious with Baelfire. Everything was changing... He felt sure Baelfire would soon be settled in with his family; whatever version of family his life permitted. It was what he wanted for him, but he also saw himself fading from his life. As visions of Emma and Henry grew, becoming more solid, more real; his own sense of being ever at Baelfire's side wavered and became ever more unreal. In time, there would be no place for him. No weird, off-putting Uncle Killian for Henry to wonder about.

Tension, fueled by the reliving of the Crocodile's story, reliving Milah's death and the taking of his hand, rode him. Whatever he felt... the presence... rode him. He rolled to his side, cuddling to Baelfire. He felt him go rigid... he thought, _I don't care_. His leg lay over Baelfire's, his hand moved up under his t-shirt. His lips, hot and aching, nuzzled to Baelfire's neck. He thought of where _he_ was sensitive, where _he_ liked to be kissed. He exploited those thoughts, placing little kisses under Baelfire's ear, moving up to the lobe. His mouth sought the heat just under Baelfire's jaw.

"Get off, Kill."

"I'm trying to, mate."

In a modified wrestling move, hindered by bedclothes and Killian's ardency, Baelfire shoved him off. At the same time his body moved on top of Killian's... it was what Killian wanted. To be thrown in the briar patch. He knew Baelfire was irritated, maybe angry, but the feeling of being held down was what he wanted. The warmth and weight of Baelfire's body was what he wanted. Baelfire pinned his arms overhead, and Killian moaned, unable to stop it.

"What the hell's got into you, man?"

In answer, Killian pushed his hips up in a grind. Baelfire immediately shifted so that they weren't lined up at the pelvis, but Killian still rocked against his thigh. "I need you." he said, breathy.

"You know I can't help you that way." Baelfire said, voice gruff.

He loosened his hold on Killian's arms, and -with another moan - Killian said, "No. Hold me down. I'll touch you all over, Bae. I can't help it."

".... _Why_? You've been okay with us for ages."

"Oh... not really."

Killian realized... Baelfire wasn't really stopping him. He'd thought to be tossed out of the bed, out of the bedroom, altogether. He was determinedly doing that thing he did... crossing the line, taking things too far. He seldom, if ever, achieved the results he sought, and yet he kept doing the same, bloody things. Blood driven, bone driven... stupid. He just couldn't stop.

Baelfire held him down, but didn't move the solid pressure of his thigh from the grind of Killian's hips. His face was close in the dark, and when Killian gasped, a little ripple of anxious pleasure going though his veins, He felt a light brush of Baelfire's lips against his cheek.

" _Oh... gods_..." Killian whispered, breath swallowed.

Baelfire murmured, "... Here..." He loosened his hold on Killian's right arm and brought his hand down. He shifted his body, laying more to Killian's side. "Just... jerk yourself, Kill."

"Do it for me." Killian breathed.

"No."

With a whine of frustration, Killian brought his hand to the hot, hard, ever more socially unacceptable spectacle of his cock. He held, rather than jerked. He felt Baelfire _touching_ him... in ways he probably interpreted as safe, as okay. His hand was warm, a soothing caress over Killian's chest, his belly. He felt Baelfire's hand on his captured arm, holding him firm just below that place where, startling and in complete bizarreness, there was no hand. Such an aching absence. Baelfire's thumb stroked there, and the muscles in Killian's forearm flexed, the ghost hand opening and closing with unquiet desire. It wasn't safe. It wasn't okay.

It would be enough, Killian thought. It would see him though this crisis, and he would reorient to reality. It wasn't the thing he wanted, what he longed for with such committed idiocy; it was like a hit of something in the stead of the drug. He'd had enough partners to know that it wasn't about who was prettiest, whose body was most pleasing.... who sucked cock the best, who touched or moaned or spoke in just that perfect, triggering way. It was about connection. He wanted Baelfire's touch, his kiss, because he felt connected. He was attuned to mood and scent... Baelfire was in his blood, a part of him.

Pity, then, that the strength, the wistfulness of the connection wasn't felt by Baelfire. But Killian felt it, and so the limited touch, the warm presence at his side was enough.

... And then Baelfire _spoke_ to him, sometimes brushing his lips to Killian's face. His hand came to Killian's face as well, fingers touching to his mouth, cupping his jaw. He murmured, "Make yourself come, Kill... work your cock."

Killian's moan was, perhaps, a little too loud. The words didn't even matter. It was Baelfire's voice, husky and close to his ear, breath hot. It was his hand, calloused fingertips, rough in places, the dry heat at the palm. Killian was overwhelmed with scents that were all warm... smoke and blood-heated skin, a scent of sex that must be his own... the lingering ghost of some cologne on Baelfire's skin; a spicy, fiery mix that made Killian see embers, a low sun over ripening fields. Baelfire seemed somehow earthbound, of the earth. Killian longed for the sea not at all.

Baelfire's hand moved from Killian's face to his neck, and a hot spoke of pleasure, intense and unexpected, shot through him. He gasped, body jumping, as did his cock.

"You like that?" Baelfire asked. He tightened his hold.

" _Oh... fuck_..." Killian breathed, almost in a panic. His hand began to stroke, frantic, his body suddenly urgent for release. It was so strange to feel Baelfire this way... to feel his realization that he'd _found_ it. He'd hit upon the thing that would drive Killian over the edge, and - with deliberation - he used it. Killian had never felt Baelfire that way. In fact, he had very little sense of his sexuality... what he was like as a lover. His only true awareness was that Baelfire tolerated him, and the tolerance hinted, in tantalizing ways, of an openness. Possibility. But it wasn't real, in terms of sex, partnership... and so Killian only had imagination. It had kicked into high gear when he'd taken other partners. When penetrated, when handled roughly, it made him crazy to imagine that Baelfire handled him that way. That it was Baelfire's cock that left him sore and aching... Baelfire's hands that left him bruised.

... But, _this_...

Baelfire's hands, at his neck and captured wrist, squeezed.... his mouth at Killian's cheek was in a steady nuzzle. Killian stroked, and Baelfire murmured, "That's it... that's it, Kill. I want you to come."

Body arching, muscles tensed and cry strangled, he did. His eyes squeezed shut with the pleasure, almost painfulness of it; the sharp, acutely screaming sensation at his pelvis, at the base of his spine, spreading into waves of sweet ache. They radiated hotly to his limbs, pooled at chest and belly. His cock spurted desperate, rhythmic ropes onto his abdomen.

Baelfire released his neck, hand moving to pet his chest. The caress over erect nipples, brushing over chest hair and kneading muscle made Killian spasm and gasp as he rode it out. Baelfire made a purring sort of sound, and Killian swallowed it up with breath, with skin.

This was what he wanted... Baelfire's easy claiming of him... ownership within friendship, the flooding of his head with chemicals that all declared themselves as Baelfire's, only wanting more. The _warmth_... to get lost in it.

But it would never be his.

　

　

　

 


	32. Play Date

Okay, this was weird. Belle sat up in her bed, her dream still moving all around. Her bedroom seemed always to keep an air of mystery at twilight times.... the wine and roses cocoon Rumpelstiltskin made for her became filled with shades of lavender and violet, venous colors gone ethereal; a moving feeling of spirits. Rumpelstiltskin would say she called them in, as he'd said of her at home. She called out to the Deadlands and said, _come inside; it's warm, here_.

She had no sense of doing so, but her association with rooms or land, altered, changed by spirit was relentlessly constant.

Egg was asleep in her hair, her breath barely a murmur. Other Sprets still slept as well... Who was this little one, Belle wondered, who loved to nest in Rumpelstiltskin's hair as he slept on his belly? Tiny mouth barely opened, showing a pink tip of tongue.

Scraps of dreams, little capers and flashes of color filled the room. It was the owls again, and the two Rumpelstiltskins. But it was something else... there were fae creatures, maybe some of them were Sprets. None looked human, in the manner of the Enchanted Forest fae. They were settled near the path of owls, observed by Goblin Rumpelstiltskin. They circled around a layer cake, an ostentatious thing, bigger than they, heavily frosted and topped with fruit. The fruit gleamed in a syrupy way; some of it sparkled with sugar.

The grouping of Sprets and Unknown Others stood together, like Whos in Whoville, and... prayed? It was in imitation of a Christian prayer or invocation. _Our spirits which art in crystal, sugar be thy name. They melting, sweet, The cane, we eat... in cakes as we do in cookies._

Belle heard it, echoing. A solemn chant, a diabetic's Satanic verse. What on earth could it have to do with a path of owls, or... with anything?

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes, the dream was weird. This was weirder.

Henry had been allowed to come over and was being toured around by Baelfire. He was frankly slack jawed and round-eyed at the Sprets, all the more so when Gizzard croaked, "Hello, Bae's son."

... But the _weird_ part was the moms. Even Rumpelstiltskin seemed a little unnerved by the two tall, self-contained women who stood; light and dark, sporty and chic; observing. It was a condition of Henry's visit that Regina be in attendance, however no one actually knew that until the three guests were standing in the doorway. Emma had given a brows-up, sing-song, apologetic, " _Hi_..."

Belle was uncertain as to whether there actually was a cat, but - if so - it was out of the bag. Sprets ran wild. For any who could sense or see it, magic was thick enough to wade through. Regina was certainly tuned in to such things.

For a time she made no direct comment, and Belle watched Rumpelstiltskin maintain a cool demeanor. _How_ , she wondered? She felt skittish and jumpy, and as though she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. _In cakes as we do in cookies_. But then, Regina always made her feel strange.

"Have you been _breeding_ these things?" Regina frowned. She backed up a step as a Spret bounced by in great, bounding leaps. _Boing.... boing...._ If she was surprised, she was hiding it well. She gave a haughty sniff.

Emma, on the other hand, was no better off than Henry. Normally a touch elfin, her eyes were big and round. Like her son, her mouth hung open. She looked all around. The Sprets were excited by the company, especially by Henry. Many times, Belle heard tiny voices chanting, _Bae-son_! Henry heard it too, and was awed.

Awesome. It was a word Belle heard all the time in this world, and it tended to get on her last nerve. Everything from a movie release to a two-for-one deal at the grocery store: _Awesome._ Looking at Henry, she thought the word might actually apply... he was too bedazzled and gobsmacked for words... he appeared to be having a flushed, shortness of breath, odd on a ten year old. Emma, too, was discombobulated. Twitterpated. She couldn't even alter her expression when Baelfire said, "Told ya."

The spell broke a little when a few of the Sprets became interested in the butt of her gun, poking bluntly from its holster. Emma, body jerking to realize she was invaded and investigated, said, "Whoa."

Looking at the ruckus, Baelfire also said, " _Whoa_." He shooed Sprets, and told them, "We don't touch these. Gun go _boom_."

Emma gave him a look, and he shrugged.

"Um... Baelfire?" Henry said.

"Yeah?"

"You, um... wanna play castle?"

Belle wasn't sure what playing castle entailed, but Baelfire seemed game to find out. He followed Henry into the castle's interior, the two of them followed by Sprets. Some formed lines, marching. It was military style; tiny digits formed pretend guns, and little voices said, " _Boom_!"

A castle manned by Sprets with guns. Belle marveled. The world was doomed. Although the bullets... well, they'd have to be almost invisible.

"So I see you're running a safe operation, here." Regina said to Rumpelstiltskin. "No danger at all of guns firing or magical simpletons embracing a culture of violence."

From Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, Gizzard growled, " _Bad_ mouth."

Emma's eyes went even wider, but Regina only looked at Rumpelstiltskin as if Gizzard proved her point.

"Miss Swan and her gun have occasioned our first encounter with a modern weapon... I notice the gun never left its holster, as Miss Swan is not likely to allow such a thing to occur."

Regina's general look of distaste suddenly gained focus. She looked as if she smelled something unpleasant, and Belle followed her gaze to see Killian, bleary and derelict with stubble, shuffling down the hallway. He looked not at all like himself, and paused, clearly surprised to see a crowd observing his approach.

In an odd way, he raised his hook with a vague smile and said, "Greetings, earthlings."

"What are you running, here? A flophouse?" Regina asked, looking at Rumpelstiltskin. "How many people are living here?"

"What do you care, dearie? Henry's not moving in. He's here to visit his father."

"I care about the atmosphere I allow him to be a part of. The sort of... people... I allow him to associate with."

"Well, then. For his sake I've asked the drug-addled, transvestite prostitutes and the heavily tattooed snake charmers and sword swallowers to stay in the basement. I've got them set up with a hookah and YouTube. They shouldn't be a problem, dearie."

Surprising Belle, and perhaps Rumpelstiltskin, Killian gave a little bark of laughter, as peculiar as his appearance. A bubbled, chest-deep blurp. Emma looked down, smiling. "I'm sure he'll be fine." she said. "We're just visiting."

"Of course _you'd_ think so, Miss Swan."

Emma rolled her eyes, and Killian made his way to Belle. He murmured, "Madam Mayor, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

" _Ooh_. Bean." he raised a brow and paused, studying her. "I think I _liked_ that."

Fidgety, Belle quietly advised, "Do shut up."

He smiled, but Belle felt like something was wrong. Killian was all wrong. It was like he'd been on a bender, but he'd had the same evening as everyone else... the strange, dark and truthful evening. Early to bed so as to hide from one another and from hungry ghosts.

"Bae?" he asked, looking at her. Something in his eyes made a shiver go through her. It was a repeat, she thought, of the morning after her intense, Goblin Queen dreams. The dark make-up was mostly worn from his eyes... they seemed too wide, too open. He was sort of a disheveled mess.

Regina continued to stare at him, lip curled at her scar, as if she beheld the unwashed masses. Nietzsche's bungled and botched. Belle had a terrible urge to run her hand through his hair, to tidy it and make it lay down. To do something about his out of control, wolfy eyebrows.

"In the castle." she said. "With Henry."

"Ta, love."

He crossed the moat and made his way into the castle, and Regina said, "I can't believe I brought Henry over here to _play_ with grown men. And God only knows what _sort_ of men..."

"He's with his _father_." Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice soft, yet full of menace. "And while we're making distinctions on sorts of people, Madam Mayor; why don't you just drop the holier than thou attitude?"

Emma made a startled, little sound, not quite a laugh. Regina flashed dark eyes at her, but Emma was looking at Rumpelstiltskin with a touch of amusement.

"The Curse is lifted." Rumpelstiltskin spread his hands before him. " All of Storybrooke knows you're the Queen, and they know the things you've done. The _company_ you've kept, which includes such odious characters as myself. This constant judgment of others, as if you're a paragon of conservative, moral and politically correct family values is absurd. It served you well under the Curse, but now it's a farce. The hypocrisy. It's _embarrassing,_ dearie."

Regina blushed, and Emma; smothering mirth; muttered, "Holy crap."

Egg came to Belle, hiding in her hair, and whispered, " _Bad_ lady?"

"I don't know." Belle whispered back.

"Fine." Regina said. "That's fine. It doesn't change that I've kept Henry protected all these years. He doesn't need to be subjected to... whatever it is you have going on in this house." It seemed she could no longer completely contain herself. In a gesture that lacked temper, she raised one, high-heeled foot and didn't quite _stomp_ it back down. She asked, " _Where_ did you get the magic?"

It made Rumpelstiltskin grin an evil grin. Evil; Belle saw it clearly, as well as his delight in evil. Delight in frustrating and one-upping his former pupil. The wickedness that inhabited him was plain, and Belle was horrified to feel herself go wet. Just like that. She felt very aware of it, blushing and appalled.

"Not telling, dearie." It was the sing-song voice of the goblin, seeming to make Belle wetter, still. _Gods_. What sort of person _was_ she? Why did her body rush to that part of Rumpelstiltskin? She thought of Baelfire, asking her why she wasn't bothered by the fact that her lover was the Dark One. She could never find a satisfying answer... she only knew that she belonged to him.

Interrupting, Emma said, "Regina, why don't we leave Henry here for a little while?"

Turning to face Emma fully, Regina gave her a look of disbelief. "Are you kidding?"

"No. He doesn't need to be supervised every second. And," she added, her face coloring, "he's with his father."

Rumpelstiltskin met Belle's eyes with a small smile. Egg whispered, "Wumpelss love Belle."

　

 


	33. The Path

Rumpelstiltskin had learned to pay attention to Belle's dreams, even when they didn't escape her head and actively seek him out. She'd told him of one that repeated, changing a little, here and there, and he pondered it. Belle and her owls... He felt an ache for his tower room, for travel by owl.

He was overdue for his walk with Gizzard; he decided a path through the woods would be the most direct path to Belle's dream. With Gizzard in tow, he set off. He left Belle in the greenhouse, potting pansies. _You can only use a silver fork when planting them, dearie_ , he'd told her. He had no idea if it was true... rather than a magical lesson, it was something the spinsters imparted to him. Somehow, perhaps in trade, they'd come to have a single fork of silver between them. With it, as weather went chill, they planted pansies. _Setting out faces_ , they said.

Was it because he'd missed so much of Baelfire's boyhood that he felt a gap... as if he _needed_ to tell Belle these things? Or simply because Bae was a boy... perhaps not one to have the odd interest that Rumpelstiltskin had for faces and silver.

Maybe it was nonsense, yarns spun by spinsters; but his pansies thrived. Their petals grew large, their faces were bright and beamed from thick clumps of green. He was gratified to see Belle take him at his word and pad into the house, in search of a fork of silver.

Walking with Gizzard, the cold was intense. He wondered if Storybrooke was ever warm. Even bundled in wool and with Gizzard's magic at play, the cold seeped in, along with the damp. The sky looked like snow, tree branches faded to an in-between color of silver-lavender and melting into a sky of the same color. It looked like snow, but smelled like rain. A fine mist, not even visible, nevertheless gathered like little jewels on his brushed wool and in his hair. Gizzard shook sparkly beads from his fur.

Deer prints were everywhere. Belle had mentioned seeing them in her dream, but it was not surprising to see them on the paths. It was hunting season, and Rumpelstiltskin didn't allow anyone onto his land. The deer had found a safe haven.

Out of habit, he walked to the well. It was still dressed, decorated. Its greenery was fading, garlands of fir collecting the mist, becoming bejeweled. He smelled the magic, a portal of magic, yet all seemed quiet.

From the other side of the well, a stag raised its head. It made Rumpelstiltskin go still, a statue. It was an enormous creature, tall, and thick with muscle at chest and haunch. It grazed on soft mosses at the base of the well, bright green and sprouting fruiting bodies. Surely magic-infused. The pale light falling down caught the mist on its many-tined antlers, silvering them.

It studied Rumpelstiltskin with dark eyes, not dissimilar to Gizzard's. Gizzard remained quiet, a steady, soft rattle sounding in his chest. After some moments, the stag turned and bound, soundlessly, into the wood.

He was in Belle's territory, now, Rumpelstiltskin thought. This was her brand of magic; he felt it all around. He thought to follow the stag, as surely she would, but Gizzard pointed to a different path. Rather than into deeper forest, Rumpelstiltskin stayed on the path already stamped down, well used by deer. He began to realize they'd taken to the well as a feeding ground. They were eating the soft and tender things that magic made grow there, and it showed along their paths. Hoof prints glimmered, trails of magic. Unexpected specimens pooped up at the edges of the path... bleeding hearts, mandrake, bloodroot and amanita muscaria. Monkshood, and messy snarls of belladonna.

Pointing, Gizzard said, "Needs it."

Rumpelstiltskin collected a mushroom or two, pocketing them, but said, "You shouldn't take too much of it, old man."

"Good for Sprets."

"Hm."

The path became narrower, soon almost lost. It was marked only by a snapping down of twiggy undergrowth; deep skids in leaf and dirt where deer leapt over a fallen branch and landed on its other side. As Rumpelstiltskin navigated downed branches or small trees, covered in lichen and fern, he began to hear owls.

Spret-like, the sounds were little trills; a whinny of sorts, a breathy whistle. Screech owls. He looked up, scanning upper levels of trees, but didn't see them. Belle had shown him that he could be looking right at a screech owl, and not know it.... they tended to be small, their feathers very camouflaged to tree bark. With eyes closed, they disappeared.

"Maybe you should get in my pocket, Gizzard." he said. "We don't want you to become owl-dinner."

"Owl not to eat Spret."

"You're certain?"

"Aye, Wumpelss."

He began to hear more of them. It was as if he encroached on owl territory, and they collectively sang out, like crickets. Warning or greeting, he couldn't tell; but Gizzard was for foraging onward. Rumpelstiltskin found he was collecting so many mushrooms under Gizzard's instruction, he wondered if the mushroom hunt wasn't the true purpose of the outing.

As the forest closed in, becoming darker and less tangled with undergrowth, Gizzard emitted a soft light. Luciferase, like a little glowworm... it was a soft and steady phosphorescence. Coming to a stand of hemlocks, mixed with more stunted elder and birch, Rumpelstiltskin realized he was _looking_ at something.

It was difficult to discern, both for the dark and for the erosion of time and earth. He made out that it was - perhaps - a grave. Or even a small graveyard. A few collapsed stones, some only rubble... a mounding of earth, though certainly not the earthworks of the Deadlands. The screech owl talk remained a constant murmur, and a chunky barred owl sat on one of the stones.

"Who is buried, here?" he asked aloud, not expecting an answer.

Gizzard said, "The Mothers. Those as talks to Belle."

　

　

 


	34. The Gastronomics of Fatherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those passages where, anonymous though I am, I feel like I should apologize. To all who are smarter and more refined than this chapter, and I think that's all of you; I'm sorry. I can only say that most of the men in my life have been, oh.. a little stupid. And yet clearly influential.

They had take-out from Granny's; burgers, fries, onion rings. Henry had a chocolate shake, a topping of whipped cream squashed under a plastic lid. He sucked at it through a straw, and Baelfire watched with bizarre interest as Henry's forehead tensed, all of his concentration focused on siphoning milkshake. It was serious work.

Was this what happened, he wondered? This watching of one's offspring as they did regular, ordinary things, and being amazed. It was sort of like when he's first seen the Sprets, and - seemingly simpleminded - he would think, _look! it yawned_.

Would the normal stuff seem so interesting if he'd known Henry from babyhood? Maybe he was just catching up.... looking at the work of combined genes, looking for things he recognized. And, so very weirdly, _finding_ them.

They ate in the castle, Killian part of the group. Sprets sauntered by, looking at the food and saying, " _Hmmm_..." As if considering making a purchase. But when offered a fry, as big as themselves... or any part of the meal... they declined. One touched a finger to one of Henry's fries and then licked at the salt. It made a face like it had bitten into a lemon, all squinched eyes and sticking-out tongue.

"How can they not like this?" Henry asked.

Killian, who had already devoured his take-out, groaned. He was semi-reclined, hand to belly. He let out a hollow sounding, baritone belch, and Baelfire was amused to see that Henry tried to mask a look of becoming scandalized. He pointedly did _not_ look at Killian, and he seemed to wear a panicked expression of, _say nothing_.

The kid was a little uptight. Kind of a prude.

"They like fresh things." Baelfire said. "Raw fruit and vegetables. Flowers. Onion tops."

"And don't forget bugs." Killian added, fist to mouth for another gastric eructation.

That time, Henry actually blushed.

"Yeah." Baelfire agreed. "Bugs. They especially like leggy things, like grasshoppers. They form hunting parties."

Henry looked like maybe he didn't believe it. "All true." Baelfire assured him.

"I may die, mate." Killian announced. "That was the biggest burger I've ever seen."

"Yep." Baelfire agreed. "And the bacon, besides." His own belly was signaling that a belch was not out of the question, and he was surprised to find himself reluctant to let 'er rip in front of Henry. It was tricky, to embrace and try to understand a parental role while worried about the various judgments of a ten year old.

"Cow meets pig." Killian said, and Henry wrinkled his nose.

"Ew." He risked a brief look at Killian.

Smiling, Killian said, "That was chow, mate."

Henry seemed to not really know what to make of Killian. _You're not alone, kid_ , Baelfire thought. He'd been on a slippery slope, himself. He had regrets. In the moment... _the night_... feeling Killian's desperation, maybe despair, he'd thought he was doing a good thing. The touching, the words. He was helping Killian... he was a good friend with an understanding and acceptance that their bond was unusual.

He'd since reassessed. Perhaps nighttime judgment was not his best. Plus, there had been an unsettling moment, his hand around Killian's neck, when he thought he might like what he was doing. He could have taken things further, and the knowledge bothered him. Upset him, even.

That night had caused a shift.... a change in a sea of changes. For one, Killian was sleeping in his own bed. The truth was that Belle was his primary source of protection, now, and they all knew it. It was clear that his father couldn't bear to hurt or disappoint her, and Killian was her charge.

It was for the best, Baelfire thought. Both of them in their own beds and readjusting to a less confusing level of friendship. But the surprise was that _he_ was having to adjust. He missed Killian at night. He even missed waking to feel himself entangled, stuck; a victim of Killian's sprawl. He didn't seem to understand that beds had sides; one side per passenger. For Killian, it was all middle.

Yes, it was for the best. There had been a few days when it seemed like Killian was beaten down... like _the night_ had made things worse, rather than providing relief. But he'd rallied. He'd leveled out.

Killian said, "You ever try belching words, Henry?" Chin tucked to chest, he belched _HENRY_ in a monster voice.

Henry looked at Killian like he was from Mars. Then he looked at Baelfire.

Baelfire shrugged. "I guess your mom runs a pretty tight ship, huh?"

"What do you mean?" Henry asked.

Baelfire felt an inward groan. Oh... Emma was going to murder him. _Mur-Der_. It was no premonition; he knew it. And _Regina_... His first act of fatherly instruction was going to be all about gastric eructation and the necessary freedom of flatus. The health hazards of suppression, keeping it all bottled up. How had it come to this?

He said, "It's a guy thing, Henry. You don't have to hold in your burps and farts."

Henry turned bright red. Looking away, he said, "No. Um... I think you do, actually." It was as if Baelfire had gravely erred, and Henry was trying to throw him a rope.

Killian smiled at Baelfire. He belched, _BAELFIRE_.

"Well, I mean, you should be polite." Baelfire said. "You know... you don't just let loose at the dinner table. But when it's just the guys, it's no big deal. We _all_ have to do it." Lowering his voice, he said, "Even girls. Even your moms."

Henry's head whipped back to Baelfire, as if he'd blasphemed. Killian, voice shocked, said, " _No_ , mate. Not girls. Surely not. _Not_ Madam Mayor."

Poor Henry. It really did seem as if sacrilege was taking place, and he was deeply uncomfortable with it. Loyalties were compromised. Trying to ease the kid, Baelfire gave another shrug. Casual.

"Yep. Her too. It's a universal thing, burps and farts. No one escapes. It remains true across worlds."

Killian asked, "Have you ever seen a dog fart, Henry? And then it looks at its arse in accusation... like it _couldn't_ be more shocked."

Baelfire saw a twitch at the corner of Henry's mouth. He made merry eyes at him. "The president does it." he said. "That guy on Jeopardy does it... the prettiest girl in your school... _Snow White_ does it."

"But _not_ Charming." Killian said, hook raised.

"Jury's out." Baelfire agreed. "I bet Sprets do it, but they're so tiny, no one knows."

Killian belched, _SPRET FARTS_.

Looking from one to the other, Henry said, "You guys are... kind of gross."

Baelfire laughed, and - sitting up - Killian said, "Why, Baelfire. I bet even the _Dark One_ does it."

"Why, I bet you're right, Kill."

Killian struck a Dark One pose, arms in an artful vogue about his head. Peculiar, with the hook. He said, " Behold dearie! I am... oh, hang on." With a subtle hip roll, he farted, impish grin in place. "Ah! Much better, dearie. I feel decidedly less dark."

Well, Baelfire thought. That did it. Henry's hand slapped over his mouth, smothering a laugh that was almost retarded, so unaccustomed did it seem, rushing through his little body. It was at war with his blush, with his blazer and the careful part of his hair. He made a valiant effort to snuff it out, but it burst forth... a mortified thrill of boyish giggles.

Next, Baelfire considered, they could tackle such pressing concerns as ; how is it that my nose is runny but my boogers are dry? Or he could impart the wisdom of noogies, wedgies, Indian burns, wet willies, purple-nurples and two-for-flinching. One had to be prepared for lost boys.

"You alright, Henry?" He smiled.

Not quite recovered, Henry asked Killian, "How do you _do_ that stuff... like, on cue? At will?"

Killian looked quite pleased. He'd found a calling. Hand to chest, he belched, _IT'S A GIFT_. He sounded like a maniacal robot. Henry wrinkled his nose, but smiled.

In the spirit, and possessed of a bloated, complaining belly, Baelfire belched a multi-syllabic belch, then lit one off. It was fragrant, and Killian pretended to fall down, dead. Death by flatus. He moaned, "Holy mother, Bae. You really _are_ the son of evil." To Henry, he added, "That's what _evil_ smells like, lad."

Henry was in the clutches of another spasm of ungainly laughter. It tickled Baelfire's insides to see it... he couldn't stop his own grin. To Killian, he said, "I regret nothing. The pleasure was _indescribable_."

Henry fell over. His giggles infected the Sprets. All about was hopping and laughter. Feeling quite wise, Baelfire thought, everyone understands farts.

Keeping puckish eyes on Henry, Baelfire asked, "What about.... do you think _Belle_ does it?"

Serious faced, Killian said, "Well, it's not for nothing I call her _Bean_ , mate." The look he gave Henry was full of warning and portent, and it was too much... the notion of Belle as an unstoppable fart machine did him in. It almost did Baelfire in. Henry rolled, possessed by a laughter that was loosening up his insides; Baelfire wondered if it was for the first time. As if a by-product of that loosening, an unintended, tiny, little nothing of a fart slipped from the kid, like a kernel of corn, popping. He gasped in horror, but the gasp was lost in his red-faced laughter.

Spontaneously, as one unit, Baelfire and Killian raised their arms in the air and cheered.

　

 


	35. Ghastly

The dream was so unusual, so unlike her typical dreams... Belle wanted to dismiss it. It was kind of ridiculous. She thought it was the product of having Henry around. His young-boy influence lingered about the castle, and now the Sprets had apprehended a box of toothpicks, and swordfights were the new vogue. Even Egg, girly as she could be, was learning the moves. She lunged, saying, "Ha!... _Ha_!"

Gone were the dream woods, the owls; even Rumpelstiltskin. Instead, her dream had her in a sort of bunker, something between an earthworks and an actual room, metal bunk-beds lining the rough walls. At one end of the room was a heavy door, maybe steel. Something monstrous, grotesque and yet unseen was trying to attack from the other side.

Others were with her in the bunker... regular looking people, unknown to her. At the sounds of force and mayhem, the people began changing, morphing. Superheroes... fighters from Henry's games? One woman changed into something that seemed too big for the room, a somewhat Godzilla-like form, but all white; scales glimmering. Others only grew in size and/or musculature, and suddenly had weapons. Sometimes body parts were weapons... arms became elaborate guns. Eyes shot fire.

There was a red and black dragon, one of the men, who kept breaking apart into smoke and the reforming. The white creature, the woman, seemed to be a storehouse of magic or psychic power. The others asked her what their forms were before they actually morphed.

In a panic, very vulnerable and small in the alien scenario and minus Rumpelstiltskin, Belle shouted up to the white figure, " _What am I? What is my form_?"

It peered down. In the dream, Belle felt a shockwave go through her to be so suddenly in the notice of the woman-creature. Though it/she was white, its eyes were nearly black. It studied her, and looked... sad? It said, " _Nothing. You are only yourself. But you are protected by a god_."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had her surly upon waking. What damn god? Recurring dreams of paths and owls were one thing; this new influence of sugar-worship and anime humans was another. It was too random, and it made her impatient with Killian and his ADHD, butterfly ways.

"Grouch." he snarled.

Belle snarled back, inarticulate.

Switching gears, he turned his blue-eyed smile on her and said, "I hope I'm around when you have the Dark One's baby, Bean."

"I don't see that happening." Belle muttered, wondering why her future motherhood was one of Killian's themes.

"Oh, aye. It'll happen. You've got 'mommy' written all over you. My vision is that you'll have a snake-haired, slightly greenish little girl. She'll have your eyes and your tendency to say _'leave me alone'_. You'll name her 'Ghastly'."

Belle stared at Killian. He was teasing her, as always, but she found the imagery almost... cute. He added, "It goes without saying, she'll be a daddy's girl. And, also, that it's your solemn duty to save this child from her father's nose."

Smiling at the thought of a little girl saddled with Rumpelstiltskin's nose, Belle asked, "Why is she snake-haired? Is that a Dark One thing?"

Killian always enjoyed when she played. Warming to his idea, he said, "Oh no, love. That's from you, and all of your dreamy, quietly witchy ways. Those little snakes, with their wee, forked tongues, will whisper secrets to Ghastly. They'll be her companions, and when she's alone, they'll tell her the stories of Mother Goose."

"Oh, Killian." Belle shook her head.

In an entirely different voice, intimate and unfit for Rumpelstiltskin's ears, Killian said, "Oh, _Bean_."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rumpelstiltskin took her deep into the woods. Gizzard came along, riding atop Belle's head and keeping warm in her hair. He directed them to the place he'd led Rumpelstiltskin, in the stand of hemlocks, elder and birch. A place of stones and bones, barely recognizable as anything other than a bit of rocky earth. Mosses grew thick, and screech owls made a quiet trill, the end-notes high, like many questions.

At once, Belle's head was full of soft, rustling voices. She swayed, and Rumpelstiltskin put his arm around her, holding her up.

"What is it, love? Does it mean anything to you?"

Belle shook her head, a little vague. She was trying to sort out whispers and breath... to hone in on words. Gizzard said, "Mothers speaks to Belle."

"Mothers?" Belle asked.

"Aye."

She smelled it... the faint decay of roses, green stems too long in water gone cloudy, delicate petals gone rusty and curled. The presence that arrived in Rumpelstiltskin's house on the night of his confession... a presence that may have instigated it. Perhaps a presence in her dreams.

" _Whose_ mothers?" she asked.

"Banished childs." Gizzard rasped. "Childs of Eves, lost twibes.... gods to Spwets."

"It's thick here, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin said. "The magic. Thicker than at the well. Do you feel it?"

Belle nodded. She felt overwhelmed... connected to something that played on her emotions. Recognized her. Whatever was here, whatever lingered in earth, stone and tree-root; she felt certain it was the origin of her Goblin Queen.

Like the Dark One, had that woman - whatever she was - begun in this world? Had she crossed to another? Was she _real_?

"Is it magic from home?" She asked Rumpelstiltskin.

"No, love. I think not. It feels like the sort you deal in."

She gave him a look. She hardly _dealt_. And only once had she _cast_... and that had been at home. Compared to Storybrooke, one swam in magic, there.

Gizzard said, "Belle can open door. _Keep_ open."

"Travel... back and forth... Between worlds?" Rumpelstiltskin asked.

"Aye. Mothers loves Belle, their childs. Banished."

What had so many done, Belle wondered, to be banished. Not just one man, a murderer; _tribes_. Sent to the Land of Nod.

Were they goddesses, the Mothers? She thought of the white creature of her dream... Were they protecting her?

"How could I open a door?"

"With spells. With Spwets. Gifts to Mothers... cakes. Sweets."

"Would you want to go home, love?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, and she gazed at him.

I know you, she thought. His identity as a murderer was settled more firmly inside her, now, causing shadows. But she knew him. He added, "You know I would... change. If we went back. I would look like the man you first knew. I would _be_ that man."

"Dark." Belle said. She felt herself smiling; she spooked herself.

"Indeed."

She felt the pull of the Deadlands like a tugging at her womb. Like oxytocin let-down, a kitten-child waiting to be fed. She longed for home, but also felt tied to Storybrooke... as Rumpelstiltskin was tied. Before, she'd been alone. She'd summoned a demon, and then had gone, willingly, to his home.

"I can keep the door open?"

"Aye." Gizzard said.

"Then... maybe, yes. I want to go home. Rumpel... do you?"

Surprising her a bit, he said, "I... don't know, love."

"But... your castle. Your _power_..." It was _so much_ greater at home.

"Aye. But, Belle... I don't know if I can bear to change. I don't want Bae to look on me when I'm like that. It was the nightmare... the tragedy of his childhood."

Belle put her hand to his face. She was startled to see his dark eyes, gone liquid with tears. The water stood, not spilled, his forehead furrowed and tensed.

... It was not his usual reaction to magic and power. To doors. The very notion, she realized, felt like something of a threat to him. It stressed him; he was pulled tight between magic and Baelfire.

"If he can't forgive m now, when I look like his papa... How could it even be considered if I look like _him_?"

"Like you." Belle said.

"Like the monster who killed his mother. Who let him go."

Making her voice gentle, Belle repeated, "Like _you_."

His tears spilled over, and he looked away as Belle caressed over his face, catching them on her fingers. In his sadness, Belle shivered. The shiver was echoed in soft, owl trill.

"We don't have to go anywhere." she whispered. "We don't have to _open_ anything. Whatever is here... whatever is connected to me, or us... it was here before we were. It will linger, after."

He nodded, reaching to press her hand to his face. He kissed the palm.

"I think something has to be done, dearie. A change of some sort has to happen. It's so thick... it's inevitable. Either we choose the path, the shape of the change. Or it will choose us. Or Reul Ghorm may pick up on the thread of it, and she may decide what the change is to be." Looking up at Gizzard, he asked, "What do you think, old man?"

"Aye." Gizzard was somber. "Change... must. Belle to know Mothers."

It sounded strange to her; Mothers. She, so long motherless. Stranger still, she couldn't shake the notion of the white and glimmering monster-creature of her dream. Was it a Mother... or did it speak for them? Was it a guardian?

"Let's..." she faltered. She was making suggestions based on nothing. On feelings, fragments of dreams. "Let's just think on it awhile." she said.

Rumpelstiltskin nodded again, and Belle said, "I love you, Rumpel. It's true, then and now. No matter what you feel when you look in the mirror."

He looked at her, a catch in his breath. Silver glimmered in his hair that was the color of owls, his eyelashes wet and a flush at his pouting, bottom lip. The ghost of the imp was all around him... both of them broke Belle's heart when sadness took them. In all ways, to her he was lovely.

　

　

 


	36. Wolves, Goddesses and Other Stuff

 

Belle found herself studying Killian, and an idea; loose, not quite a plan; began to take shape.

Ruby, visiting and making her own study, murmured, "Isn't he _such_ a hottie?" She seemed to know, instinctively, that her hopes regarding Killian were not coming to fruition.

Belle smiled. She honestly could not weigh-in on the subject of Killian's hotness... she'd gone through unexpected changes with him. She'd once felt both indifferent and a little intimidated, then bothered and mildly offended. And then came her dream, and the peculiar friendship that grew between them. She saw his prettiness... she'd always _seen_ it. But its impact was always colored by her feelings.

With a wistful sigh, Ruby said, "Look at his _butt_."

" 'Tis a butt, indeed." Belle acknowledged.

"Girl, yes. That man's got some badonkadonk going on back there."

It made Belle snicker, and she eyed the roundness of Killian's posterior. She said, "He must be like an alpha wolf to you, Ruby."

Looking at her, Ruby said, "Oh, no... That's Baelfire."

Belle regarded Ruby in surprise. Did that mean Ruby was attracted to Bae...? Oh, gods. Too much complication.

Ruby said, "Those two, they're pack. I can smell it. But Baelfire is the calm one. He makes the big decisions, and he protects... well, everyone. He looks out for Killian, for Henry... for anyone who becomes a part of his life. I think he's even looking out for Gold, now. He's the alpha. _Killian_... he's the beta. Whatever Bae wants to happen, Killian will enforce it. He'll make sure it happens."

"Beta?" Belle asked.

"Yeah. They're like... thugs. Sad to say, they're sort of considered expendable, as far as a pack goes. Like, if they get killed in the act of making sure the alpha's wishes are met, then there's always more of them. There are more pack that listen to their blood, rather than their brains. The ones who think, reason and _decide_ ; the alphas; they're harder to come by. And more necessary."

Smiling, Belle said, "So... you're attracted to the thug?"

With a saucy, red-lipped grin, Ruby said, "I can't help it. I've always had a thing for thugs. Even before I remembered being a wolf. I just can't shake the attraction to raw, stupid, blind sexuality. I'm hoping one day I'll develop a thing for brains... I could sure use some extra."

Both women continued to watch Killian. He and Baelfire were instructing Henry on the finer points of lawn maintenance... they raked leaves and piled them up for a burn. Henry stared at a blister on his palm as if he didn't know what it was.

Killian kept tossing Henry, in a casual, in-passing way, into the leaves. He said things like, _What did you do that for, mate?_ It was the cause of much re-raking, and Belle thought that, at any moment, Henry was going to start hitting Killian with a rake.

"I wonder what Rumpel is, in the wolf world?" she mused.

"Oh, that's easy. He's a lone wolf."

Well, of course he was. Belle thought it was the truth of both of them, really.

Ruby said, "He should join a pack. Wolves need family, you know. The lone wolves are always in hiding, always covering up their scent. Always on the run. They stay hungrier than the pack."

"Well... he found Bae." Belle said. " And now he has Henry, too. Like it or not, I guess he has Killian, because of Bae. He's done a lot to surround himself with family."

Ruby nodded, a bit far away in her study of Killian. Her fingers lingered at her lips. Her beta, Belle thought... yet she always saw Killian as a crow.

"He has." Ruby agreed. "But they don't trust him, yet. They haven't accepted him into the pack, as one of them. He's still alone."

A fierce feeling in her chest, Belle thought, he's _not_. He had her. Though... well. She wasn't any sort of wolf.

And... whoops. Now Baelfire was tackling Killian at full throttle, leaves everywhere as men went sliding across the browning grass. Henry jumped up and down and cheered.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Belle's study of Killian continued after Ruby left, and what she was thinking of was cake. Cake, goddesses and the pretty, consort/guardian types they loved. She hadn't known about beta wolves... the idea that it was Killian's wolf-role fed her imagination. The thug.

She thought of the spirit scent that marked him, and the way it always made her see women. Old goddesses. The darker things; opium and black narcissus, indigo musk and cypress; these scents were always woven into roses. Sugary scents, buttercream.

Those women, she thought... if women they ever were, flesh and blood... they were greedy things. They wanted their cake and their crow-boy, too. Gizzard had said to give them cakes, sweets; and Belle struggled with exactly how one went about feeding ghosts. She wondered if it should be considered at all, when it brought such sadness to Rumpelstiltskin. When he tried to start anew.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Rumpel?"

"Yes, dearie?"

Both were sprawled on her bed. Rumpelstiltskin was propped up against pillows, nose in one of her books. _Oracles of Earth and Fire_. He was barefoot, shirt loose and untucked. Belle lay on her stomach near the foot of the bed, chin propped in her hands, thinking. Rumpelstiltskin's foot was in a comfortable, steady nudge at her bum.

"Remember in the Deadlands... when you said the things I saw on the barrows were altars? Offerings?"

"Mm hm."

He wasn't really listening to her, she thought. His long toes kneaded the curviest part of her bum. He was content, like Chloe in her fort, his mind wherever her book took him.

She rolled to her side, and his foot reoriented to her hip. Playfully, it rocked her to and fro.

"I wonder if something like that is called for in the woods."

"Mm."

Belle stared at him. Eyes cast down, studious over the long nose from which she must save Ghastly. His hair fell about his face, wing-like. It cast shadows.

Should she flash a boob, she wondered?

"I was thinking that these Mothers of Gizzard's are like goddesses... spirits. Important to the fae. The Sprets."

"Mm mm."

Belle sighed. If she presented him with a breast, things would probably take a turn. Her thought would never be complete. More than once, he'd said, "Lend me a breast, dearie." Sometimes he reverted to 'titty'. He said it casually; a comical, on-the-go grab and suck, not necessarily meant to lead to more. But it almost always did.

Drawing circles on the bed with her finger, she said, "I think those spirits love Killian."

That got his attention. She hadn't meant to capture it in exactly that way, but it was hers. His dark eyes flickered up from the book, and he fixed her with a dry stare.

"Well. Who bloody doesn't?"

Belle looked innocent. It was second nature. First, really. "Ever since that night that my dreams popped out and... attacked everyone, I've felt like he's connected to some sort of old goddesses. Maybe abandoned by them. That other part of me, in my dream... through her, I felt it so _keenly_. I'm sorry, Rumpel. I know you hate it. But it's how I came to have a sense of Killian."

Petulant, but still playful, Rumpelstiltskin pushed her hip, rather than rocking it. She twisted briefly to her back, then righted herself. He did it again, knocking her over.

"Rumpel!"

"You need a better class of playmate, sweetheart." He pushed her a third time, now smiling. Belle made an exasperated sound, and he said, "I can't help it. The foot is evil."

" _All_ of it is evil." Belle frowned.

"Oh, aye." he grinned.

Belle pouted, and he went back to rocking her hip. "Alright." he said. "Tell me your thoughts on your new beloved. Your sweetie, your swain. Your _boo_."

She rolled her eyes. "My thoughts are that if these spirits are connected to that dream part of me, I should know how to appease them. To feed them, and give them what they want. But I don't. I thought... maybe Killian knows. I thought... maybe they want _him_." _And probably cake_.

Rumpelstiltskin set his book aside. He looked at Belle, eyes aglow, expression all fond affection. "Belle... Are you saying we should _sacrifice_ the pirate to these goddesses?"

"What? No."

"Oh." his face fell, disappointment plain.

"I just thought maybe we should take him to the graveyard. See if they give me a sign... or give him one. I mean, I don't know. I guess he could give them a tiny bit of blood. In sacrifice."

Petulant again, Rumpelstiltskin fussed, "I got so excited."

"I can see that." Belle observed. And she could; the excitement tented his trousers. How utterly bizarre she found it that the thought of spilling Killian's blood made him hard. But then... were they at home, she might have taken such a response for granted. In Rumpelstiltskin, bloodlust was easily married to sexual lust.

With his foot, he rolled her back to her stomach and resumed kneading at her bum with his toes. Abruptly he sat up and gave her a hard slap on one denim-clad cheek.

"Ow!"

"That's for your little crush." he said.

"I don't have a crush."

"Of course not." He slapped her again." And that's for leading me on."

"Leading you on?"

"Aye, dearie. I had visions of tying the pirate to a cross and opening him up for your spirits. Feeding his heart to them. The old gods are so very bloodthirsty... goddesses, especially. All but forgotten in favor of gods. Starved, after years of dust, wind and rain. You made me _so_ excited."

He straddled her backside, wriggling his hands beneath to work at her jeans. A bit breathless, Belle said, "Maybe _you_ have the crush, Rumpel. It seems like you have some very personal issues to work out with Killian."

"Indeed. But I'd rather tackle them with you, love."

He'd gotten her jeans partway down her hips, and a rush of lust came over Belle. She thought, _damn it._

Twisting beneath him, she said, "I don't particularly want to be the... _receptacle_ for your Killian-erection."

He stopped tugging at her jeans, face aghast, nearly ashen. "Turn over." he ordered, moving off of her. He gave two more slaps to her half-bared bum. "That's for saying 'receptacle'. That's for saying 'Killian-erection'." He gave her a third slap, and said, "For the love of all unholy, Belle. Those words should never be spoken together."

In spite of mild, stinging pain, Belle was giggling, face pressed to the bed. Muffled, the giggle was something of a snort.

"Oh. It's funny?"

"Yes."

He slapped her again, but she couldn't stop laughing. Even as she twisted her body away from his slaps... even as she wrestled with him a bit, pointedly not assisting as he struggled with her jeans. She was infected with laughter... once started, it became hysterical. It didn't stop until he slid inside of her.

Then she gasped, and said, "Oh..."

Looking down at her, he smirked. "Indeed? Giggly girl." He thrust slowly, and Belle stretched, cat-like beneath him. She said, " _Ohhh_...."

"Oh?"

She looked at him, low-key waves of pleasure rolling over her. Through her. His thrust remained so slow, it drove her a little mad. Far from his animal, bloodlust rut; he smiled at her. He watched her. His hand groped at her breast, then moved to her face.

"We could make a gift of _this_ to your goddesses." he suggested, giving her little kisses. "You can give them your pleasure."

Belle closed her eyes. Slow friction, wet and hotly luxurious, made her skin flush and then goosebump, and flush again. She spread her legs wide, feet planted on the bed, and felt the sheer greed with which she took Rumpelstiltskin. Her hips made a slow rock, encouraging him to ride her.

"I don't think I could give the pleasure away." she breathed. The spirits would simply have to possess her, and take it for themselves.

He purred, "No. I suppose not, dearie."

He thrust faster, the depth of it making Belle raise her knees up, tilt her hips. His mouth opened on hers, his tongue soft and sensual. He moved slowly again, lost in kissing, the connection of breath, lips and tongue. He teased with the tip of his tongue, making Belle give small, whimpered moans.

"I want him to see this." he murmured.

Belle opened her eyes. His lips moved softly, brushing to hers.

"What?"

"Your lovelorn puppy. Your boy-toy."

"You're saying this _now_?"

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. He said, "It's a lowly thought, I know, dearie. Unworthy. I can't help it.... the _cock_ is evil, too."

"Maybe the _most_ evil." Belle agreed, all breath. The evil cock moved inside her, and her body was a slow pulse around it... the suspense and provocative dreaminess of an oncoming storm. She stroked up and down his back, under his shirt, wanting to somehow disappear inside of him. Forever, as was their binding contract.

Mouth kissing his way to her neck, he murmured, "I want him to see me inside you... to see your pleasure. Your desire. To see that it's _mine_."

Her body escalated. Her mind struggled with his words, but her body only cared for the sound of his voice, the feel of his mouth near her ear. Though her mind had a little wrinkle, her body even responded to his possessiveness. To his desire to show his claim on her. His pace quickened and didn't stop. He pushed up on his hands, arms rigid. The spread of his thighs as he maneuvered his body, flush to hers, spread her legs wider. He pounded. His hips were a fast, steady hammering to hers, his cock brutal. As Belle cried out, her body slipping into a tight squeeze, he dipped low at the elbows. His mouth opened on hers again, and -with the steady, relentless drive of his hips - it was too much. A cry, guttural at the start, anguished, spilled from her lips.

Rumpelstiltskin moaned, and said, "Yes, love! _Loud_. I want him to hear. I want him to know I'm _fucking_ you."

Light burst into being in Belle's skull. The light and the feeling of seizure continued in rolling waves... he body didn't push Rumpelstiltskin out, but - rather - after the first almost unbearable contraction, it held him. He kept moving inside her, his breath harsh at her ear, turning into little, puppy whimpers as he neared climax. Belle felt herself building again; the movement, his voice driving her; inflaming her.

Arms around him, she turned her head, bringing her mouth to his ear. She was still blind, both from darkness and blinding light. Feeling the velvety shell-spiral of his ear at her lips, she whispered, "Rumpel... He _knows_. He's obsessed with it. He puzzles over it. He _knows_."

She was answered with a low moan. She thought of him as a lone wolf, finding her and rubbing his doggy scent all over her, marking her as his. If only he knew how Killian wondered over their pairing; how he wished he could be so mated.

His moan became a growl, and his thrusts became shorter.... he rocked, pelvis grinding to her clitoris, his body tensed and drawn.

Belle, too, had reached a sharp edge, almost painful. As he rocked against her, the angst at her clitoris high-strung and acute, she climaxed again, sex swelling. It felt different... she was drowning. Instead of light, there was wave after wave of darkness. She was flung far away, awash in pitch black, traveling at a speed not known on earth. Her spirit burst into fire, hearing Rumpelstiltskin's cries as he came; as he emptied. She held onto him, the only thing that anchored her to the world.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

 


	37. Spells and Star Wars

The spell was composed of these ingredients: There was a ship.

Belle enlisted Killian and Baelfire to help her build a very small structure. It was meant to be a cottage, dollhouse-like in nature; a shelter for spirits. A place for them to dwell when not at play in the trees, talking to owls; or taking nourishment underground from roots... tending Sprets.

Under Killian's tutelage, house became boat. It was simple... rather Viking in design; a hollowed-out canoe shape that bellied in a pregnant way at the sides. Belle had had visions of something gingerbread in nature, fanciful and confectionery for ladies who liked to be fed sweet morsels by boys born of love goddesses, raised in their temples. But Killian was their boy, she'd decided. She let him guide the vessel that was also an offering. He and Baelfire equipped it with masts and little sails of canvas. Belle painted roses on the sails; a crescent moon on the flag.

There were flowers and cake. Killian pressed the tender, bright green leaves of lemon verbena to the floor of the ship, raising scent and getting the plant's oils all in the whorls of his fingerprints. Egg showed up, the whisper of lemon and mint calling her away from the castle. She sat cross-legged at the table, tucked into the curl of Killian's hook while his other hand worked. Belle brought star jasmine and violets, the violets deep purple and creamy-white, from the greenhouse. Their leaves were big hearts of forest green. The jasmine blossoms, of course, were stars. Cooing, Egg said, " _Ooh_... _Ooh_..." Then, as she'd learned from Killian, she said, "Ooh, _la-la_."

The flowers went into the ship, as well as small offerings of strawberry cake with cream frosting, pastry layered with nuts and honey. The cake was wrapped and folded into the big leaves of moonflowers, also heart-shaped, and tied with Rumpelstiltskin's golden thread.

Belle was a little vague regarding purpose. She talked to Baelfire and Killian about the hidden graveyard, and about the pockets; the places in Storybrooke where there was a potential for 'thinning'; for portals of various types. She spoke of the possibility of a doorway to home.

She didn't mention that, in addition to cake and shelter, fae offerings and sweet words of acknowledgement, there was the slightest chance the spirits might want a taste of Killian. She didn't really know if there was any truth in it, or if she was only going on instinct, colored by dreams.

There were words. Belle wrote them on a small piece of paper and then rolled it into a little scroll. She tied it with red ribbon.

Baelfire asked, "Why does spell-making feel like arts and crafts?"

Smiling, Belle said, "Sometimes it feels like cooking. Or gardening."

And sometimes it _didn't_. Her memories of Rumpelstiltskin bringing the Curse to life, waking it in Regina and setting two worlds in motion... it left her in something of a swoon. The memory lived in her body, which had become a ragdoll under his magic, danced around his tower room in a twirling, triumphant waltz.

The words on her paper read, _this is for you. take shelter and nourishment. love, the Goblin Queen._

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Baelfire said, "So.... there's a possibility that a path can be opened up between our worlds."

Emma went stiff. She was a little spooky, now... in a way that differed from Belle. It was the ice princess thing. It could come over her without warning, as if she'd become suddenly articulated in snow crystals. The parts of her that still shone with her girlhood sunniness, sending out rays of warmth, could go quiet in a heartbeat. Baelfire then felt the presence of a still, cold lake, a mirror; reflecting the sky back to itself and revealing none of what lay beneath.

The chill, when he felt it, was bracing.

"You're going back." she said.

"No."

He sat beside her on her bed, and turned his body to face her, fully. He was torn between an almost-fear of her coolness and a youthful desire to make-out. To re-learn. With Emma, he kept moving back and forth in time.

"I told you," he reminded her, "I won't leave Henry."

_Or you_ , he wanted to add. It seemed as though it couldn't yet be spoken, and he wasn't sure if the time would ever come. It was very much up to Emma. Still, his promise to Henry remained.

"The thing is," he said, " if this path happens, then it's like a door. It might be something that stays open. We could come and go... you and Henry, too."

"Unless Regina decides to go back, take Henry with her, reclaim her magical reign of evil and find a way to close the door on us."

Emma's green eyes were clear and frank, and - in accordance with tradition - Baelfire felt like an idiot. "Oh. " he said. Rubbing his chin, he muttered, "Huh. Well.. but there are other things at play, here. Other types of... magic. I'm sure my father would have a protection spell or two handy."

"I thought you hated all of that, Cassidy. _Baelfire_... whoever you are. I thought you wound up here because you wanted to escape magic."

"Yeah." Baelfire agreed. "I did. I still don't have much use for it. But... Okay, Emma. I'm going to give you a Star Wars example."

Her face went utterly blank, and she visibly braced herself. " _Still_? With the Star Wars analogies? Do we _have_ to?"

"It happens to apply." Baelfire said. "See... it's like there are two of me."

"At least."

With a look, Baelfire said, "One part is all Han Solo." He ignored her overblown eye-roll. "That part doesn't believe in... anything. I feel like we all have to look out for ourselves, do whatever it takes. It's a practical part, and it places no value on things like magic, religion, whatever."

Dryly, Emma said, "You put your faith in the blaster at your hip."

He was pretty sure she was quoting him. "Right." he grinned. His trusty blaster.

"Does this make Killian Chewbacca?"

Baelfire felt his grin broaden. He hoped he remembered to pass the image along to Killian. There _was_ the body hair to consider...

"Yeah." he snorted. "Let's just say it does." Because, he reasoned internally, Killian might prefer to be the suave Lando; but that would only lead to betrayal and carbon freeze. No. Killian was Chewy.

"But then there's my other side."

"Darth Vader?"

"No, woman. Please. That's Pop, that's _his_ story." It was not for nothing that he so identified with the early movies. "My other side is Luke Skywalker. It's like the Han Solo part became the bigger part in order to survive. And... to not _feel_ too much. But Luke is still in there, not really grown up. Still believing in magic, in the Force... still wanting to be a Jedi."

"Oh, Cassidy. I knew you aspired to knighthood."

He shrugged. Yes, it was a Star Wars analogy, but he felt like he kind of laid his soul bare for Emma. She poked around in his soul, smiling at his immaturity.

"I just... somehow I got stuck with this need to do the right thing. That's the Luke part. He's still a boy, and that part of me still lives back home. I... the here and now me... I don't want to _live_ there, but I want to see it, again. I thought maybe you and Henry might want to see it, too. If it's a real possibility." He bumped his shoulder against hers, and added, "It's _your_ birthplace too, you know. _Princess_. I always knew you were just slumming with me."

Staring at her lap, Emma bumped his shoulder back. It was almost like a handshake.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I've changed my mind, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin said. "I've come to grips. And... I think my time has come to be _benevolent_."

Belle raised her brow. Mimicking him, she said, "Indeed?"

"Aye." He handed her a cup of tea, joining her at the kitchen table. "If you make a proper sacrifice of your boy," he grinned as Belle's expression went dry, "Well, let's say your spirits see fit to open this door they protect. Your Land of Nod. Whether or not we go through, we could let all of Storybrooke know. Those who want to go home can do so... or travel back and forth. So many identify with two lives, two _selves_ , thanks to their Queen. Whatever they think of me, now, they won't be able to deny that I orchestrated Emma to break the Curse, and then led them to the way home. So I become, as you've written, the Giver of Gifts. I don't see Reul Ghorm giving any bleeding gifts." Lifting his cup, he smiled an evil smile and added, " _I win_." The last was spoken in sing-song. More and more, Belle thought, the imp showed himself.

"Even though the Curse was all your doing, Your Unholy Benevolence?"

He gave a coy, pish-tosh expression, dismissive. "I find it's best to tell people what they _need_ to hear. The details add unnecessary confusion."

Belle drummed her fingers on the table. "Is that what you do with me, Rumpel?"

"Oh, dearie." He met her eyes, sober. "You're not _people_."

 


	38. As It Was In The Beginning

Once upon a time, there lived a wild girl. She became a wild woman. She lived many lives, in many forms... and very often she lived alone.

But in her first form, she had sisters. Her sisters were both of flesh and blood, and were sisters in spirit. She was part of a tribe. The tribe, wherever it wandered, was home. Family. A sea of colorful tents, ribbons that moved in the air and caught fierce sun; silks that sparkled with threads of silver and gold.

Yet within the tribe, the wild woman and her sisters were valued as little more than cattle.

They lived secret lives, secreted from men. Like the cattle, their wildness was harnessed and bridled and broken... so they kept their very nature a secret, too. Men claimed their power came from the gods... Hero gods that came from the never-ending sky and destroyed the monster goddesses of old. Dragonslayers and Bringers of the Sun. Of fire. Gods of air who rescued all of humanity from the primordial deep. The cold and the black.

Well. Who knew what the gods were up to, but the men went about keeping their power with weapons and brute strength. They hoarded food and even knowledge, and the women were dependent on them for survival.

The wild woman and her sisters, still so wild on the inside... so that storms wracked their bodies and bruised their limbs... thought; this cannot stand. It cannot simply go on and on, forever and ever, amen.

They moved and functioned as instructed. It was a mask. They pretended to be women who belonged to men, but - all the while - they belonged to themselves. All the while they were _thinking_ ; minds ticked, eyes met. Most were dark-eyed, but here and there, startling against dusky skin, were clear eyes of blue or green. A brown that was a smoky amber, copper at the edges. The wild woman's eyes were as blue as the sky that was her sea, her pupils a stark challenge within.

They were forbidden learning, but they scratched symbols, pictures in the dirt. There were meanings in these things that men had long forgotten, but the wild women remembered... it was passed down, passed on; mother to daughter, sister to sister; whispers and touches that told a truth: _it wasn't always this way_.

The wild woman snuck away one night. Knowing she'd be flayed, likely killed if caught, she went. Knowing there was a black night full of vipers and big, hunting cats, feral, laughing dogs and a sudden cold that turned blood to ice; she went.

She'd felt herself waiting. She was so full with waiting, and soon would burst. Her palms stung with need for change, and she felt herself calling out, though she remained as silent and secret as her life demanded.

Who did she call? Goddesses? Did they live? Would they return and overthrow the tyranny of men? If they did... would it be better? The wild woman carried the tales of women before her, and knew the goddesses and gods to be equally bloodthirsty, equally capricious. The victor, however, influenced the dealings of ordinary men and women.

 _Help me_ , her heart cried. _Please, help me_.

A serpent came to her. The night was so cold, and the serpent needed her warmth. She let it coil at her feet, and then it moved up her body. She witnessed as it grew in size, it sprouted feathers. Its face changed, becoming more lizard or dragon-like. She was afraid, her body trembled with fear and cold that seized her internal organs. But, she thought, _If this is the night I die, so be it._ If death was her way out of the already snuffed-out _nothing_ of her life, she would take it.

The serpent-lizard-dragon, in a slow and sinuous, swaying and hypnotic dance, became a man. He had wings, far larger than himself. They disappeared, melted into the night, feathers dark and sometimes rippling with strange color, like pools of black oil. He spread his wings, wide, blotting out the night. The feathery underside winked with a glittery sparkle, like mica. His wings _were_ the night sky.

She'd called out, not knowing who would answer. He answered. He was not a god, but to the wild woman, he was god-like. He was old, though he looked young. He was beautiful. He'd lived in other realms... he had magic. He told her he was not beloved in the eyes of the gods.

He had a tribe of his own, brothers in spirit, and with them the wild women slipped away. They were done with the life they'd known. They gathered children, mothers... they took nothing material of the world they'd known; for who knew what lay in the darkness to which they traveled? They stepped into a fold in the air, into nothing. They trusted, because their lives had become so small and did not belong to themselves.

They became the mothers of strange children.

 

 

　

　

The Goblin Queen looked upon the small grouping who visited her grave. Her spirit eyes swallowed the child, Belle, who was herself. To her vision, Belle glowed. The light around her body was pink-amber... it was a light that healed; a light that extended to heal, without depleting. It was a mutation of the Goblin Queen's own light, which once shone and pulsed with red. Belle was like the Queen, wildness and wild magic, taught by angelic creatures, repressed. Subdued. Perhaps forgotten.

With Belle was a man, beloved of her once-sisters. His spirit had a history of sacrifice... his blood was shed late in the year and was reformed to life in the Spring. Poppies and windflowers grew in masses where his body lay.

Hanging back was the Vessel that housed her lover. He'd never died, as she had. Serpent that he was, he shed his skin from time to time, but he never died. She keened to him... through Belle, she'd visited him. It was never enough. She could not rest. Her spirit was ever restless, and traveled to underground chambers and across the sky. Now and again, it traveled into Belle.

Beside him, close, was an innocent. A man who was a blaze of white-gold light, and who didn't realize he held a fiery sword. As cherubim of old, he held his weapon. It poured forth truth and marked him as a leader. But he did not lead, he didn't acknowledge his gifts. He was quiet, observing. He watched the world; he soaked up knowledge.

... And everywhere... were her children, made flesh. The little Sprets who came to live in this world; the magic that created them became solid, dense. She looked again to the Vessel... the man/demon who had fathered her children. He'd taught her his magic, and married it to her own, more quiet magic.

All of the humans at her grave were damaged, and all in the same way. Each one had an empty space... a non-color in the light that made up their bodies. Each one was still a child, and something else... something not exactly grown. Each was missing a piece of him or herself.

... But her lover dwelt in the Vessel, and filled up a good bit of his empty space. He was much changed. It was plain that the demon changed the man. What was, perhaps, less plain was that the man had changed the demon. The man was... almost _absorbing_ the demon. He was less Vessel; more Being. Of the four, he was the most whole... it made a strange feeling in the clearing, for he had so long been the most broken.

In Belle, the Goblin Queen saw that the emptiness was shaped exactly like herself. She was Belle's missing piece. She felt the empty place pulling at her, a rough tug just behind the navel. Her children gathered around Belle, and the Goblin Queen felt pregnant with magic.

 

 

 

　

　

　

Belle placed the ship on the most intact grave, leaning it against a moss-covered stone. It wasn't at all clear that the place was grave, a tomb. The stone was so worn away, so pitted and rounded, it might have been there, always. Bones of the earth.

But she felt it. Hand to earth, a humming moved into her body. Sprets clustered to her, Gizzard at her shoulder. Egg stayed with Killian, as was her wont. Belle felt their humming, too; their little motors, cranking up magic. Strange energy, both earthly and not. Killian squatted down beside her, and whispered, "Now what, Bean?"

She felt like a traitor... he was feeling the things she felt, but with less understanding. His eyes, as sometimes happened, were too open. Things swam, there. Belle said, "I think we need just a little of your blood."

 

 

 

　

　

　

The Goblin Queen smiled to herself. Around her, her sisters of long ago were waking to the magic made by Sprets and the presence of their beloved godling. The gift that lay at her grave was really a gift for _them_ , and they ached towards it. They pulled at its essence... the great swell of the sea, the temple-profusion of flowers and the love-offering of sweets. That these things were _theirs_ , were _for them_... throbbed in their spirits.

They pulled at the furred warmth of their chosen consort, whom they'd long since tutored to their ways; in other shapes, other forms. The Goblin Queen saw that this one, so incomplete and muddled, continued to move, in a misguided way, through their teachings. He made love to generous women and accepted their shelter. He was in their service; each protected the other in different ways.

At this point in time, he was being rather disrespectful.

"My _blood_?" he scoffed at Belle. He stood.

The power of the Vessel was strong. She felt him move near... yet he hung back. He respected the invisible sword, carried by his son.

"Only a little." Belle said. "A small cut. It's like a payment, a thank-you to your benefactors. They need some of your... essence. They're not embodied, so they can take it more readily from your blood."

" _Benefactors_? Oh, aye. They've done a great job, so far."

"Killian... they're long gone. This is a magical language we're speaking... not literal. This is a way to wake them. To strengthen them."

"Bloody Wednesday Adams... I should have known. How did I let myself play into this?"

"Killian..."

"As it happens, love, I don't give a rat's arse about your bloody door. I'm perfectly fine here, where there are showers and electric ranges. Bleeding machines to do all the work. I'm fine keeping me essence to meself."

The Goblin Queen felt it, then. The fussing, in her perception, diffused into the broken fragments of light that made up this strange family. They all saw each other as different, yet they were all so alike. The fussing didn't matter. The consort was only afraid... afraid of what he didn't know, didn't understand. It was only noise.

What she felt was the gift that was for her, alone. Tucked into the ship, amongst the love-offerings for her sisters, was a message.

 _this is for you. take shelter and nourishment. love, the Goblin Queen_.

It was from Belle. It was an invitation... from herself and to herself. The Goblin Queen, ready to be restful at last, accepted it. The invitation caused an opening within Belle, the first of many doors. The magic of the Sprets lit the way. The Goblin Queen followed the light and slipped into Belle's empty space, the break in her light. It was shaped exactly right. The edges stitched up. The Goblin Queen closed her eyes, happiness washing through her like tears and laughter. Her light, moving into Belle's, shone red.

 

 

 

　

　

　

When Belle placed her hand on Killian's arm, he went still. Something moved into him. The blue of Belle's eyes had gone deep... she was different. The Sprets, always attracted to her, went into a frenzy in a sudden need to be near her. Even Egg, who adored him in a way he'd never known, scrambled to get to Belle. He felt oddly lonely without her warm, little body near his neck, her tiny fingers playing with the teardrop of crystal at his ear.

Belle was herself, but she was more. She was sure and certain. She said, "Hush, now," to Killian, and he shuddered, feeling himself become subdued. The woods became aglow with a reddish light... the light of shining a flashlight against Bae's hand, and seeing it shine through him, colored by his blood. He watched Belle give a brilliant smile to Rumpelstiltskin. The Crocodile, remaining at the periphery, yet within the light, smiled back.

Turning to Killian, Belle said, "It's alright, Killian. It _is_ blood magic, but it's not _black_ magic. These are your mothers, as much as mine."

It was only that morning - long ago, it now seemed - he'd heard Baelfire; his mournful, pitch-impaired, baying-dog howl in the shower; _Sometimes I feel like a motherless child..._

He didn't even make a decision.... it was something in her hand on his arm, in the red light. He swayed a bit on his feet, and gave her his hand. "Careful, love." he murmured. "It's the only one I have."

Belle's smile was somehow warmer, more knowing than her usual. It was as if, in a weird way, she'd matured before his eyes. The little-girl, worried part of her that he called _Bean_ was not in evidence.

She cut him, and he wondered that he'd gotten so angry and anxious. It was nothing, and he no longer balked that he was _feeding_ something with his blood. He went again into a deep squat, Belle pulling him to the ground. She held his hand near the ship; _his_ ship, built with Bae. He felt his blood drip down, and as it did, the intensity of the light grew. He glanced to Baelfire and the Croc, and was surprised to see that they, too, shone. Baelfire, as Killian had always known, shone gold.

He began to feel them... it was a strange thing. Spirits moved around him, ghost fingers in his hair and touching his lips. Like Egg, they tapped at the bauble dangling from his ear. It _felt_ mothering, in a way, not that he was overly familiar with how mothering felt. It also felt like the touch of a lover... like many lovers. He swallowed thickly, overwhelmed to feel so much less alone as they moved _inside_ of him. He stayed very still, watching Belle's profile as she stared at the ground. She was focused. She looked as she did when she tended her birds... when she stepped into their world and shut everything else out.

It startled the hell out him... he heard a voice, both in his head and at his ear, soft and very sweet. The feeling of a hand cupped at his ear, lips brushing against him, like flower petals.

 _May this sacrifice save you from evil_.

 

 

 

　

　

　

Belle felt different. Never in her life had she felt such an influence of women, and now they were all around. They evoked things, some of which she hadn't even considered real.... Lacey's memories of covering the cheap, veneer surface of a dresser with lace of black and pale pink, hoping to make it pretty. Her little, roll-on bottle of perfume that was a soft, innocent sort of musk. Where she moved the roller at wrist and throat, it left traces of silver glitter.

In the red light moving around the graveyard, there were scents of roses and lilies, heavy and funereal. There was a melancholy, autumn scent, and the brine and seaweed scent of a far-away, black ocean. There was a scent of fire, storms and honey.

When she'd bled Killian, her sisters became strong, all around her. She'd never before understood that they were a part of her; she, a part of them. In her aloneness, loneliness; she'd dismissed even the idea of them.

They were not to be dismissed. They accepted gifts of flowers and sweets, and they lavished both love and lust on an ocean-born boy, a moon-sign creature of sex and death, gone astray. But they weren't frivolous. They were not made of paper, doily hearts and sugar confections that melted into nothing. They were no more dismissible than was Lacey... their hearts were bloody, and they were strong. They were as much a part of her as they were a part of Killian.

Belle let Killian go, and when she stood, she simply knew how to do it. It was like the knowledge had always been... the door was always there, both inside herself and before her eyes. She just hadn't seen it. She reached into the pocket of secreted air where it glowed, as red as her light, and opened it.

　

　

　

　

　

 


	39. We Are the Lucky Ones

Rumpelstiltskin might have felt that Killian was overly intimate with Belle. He might have turned him into a small, salt fearing, shell making gastropod, and then stepped on him, grinding his heel in satisfaction.

But things had changed a great deal, and so he merely watched Killian, in close contact with Belle. He wasn't especially troubled.

Killian knelt at Belle's feet as she sat, heavily, in a wingchair. A fire talked and purred merrily in the fireplace, and Killian talked to Belle's expanding belly. His hand, fingers splayed, was cupped to the side of her ample rounding, feeling where a small foot was energetically kicking from the inside.

"She really is _ghastly_." he said to Belle, brows raised at the force of the kick.

Rumpelstiltskin smirked. He'd known his child was a girl long before Belle felt the need for confirmation by ultrasound. He'd felt her presence when she was a wee dot, cells barely divided. Like her mother, she dreamed. For months, she'd floated in a warm sea, aglow in red light, and dreamed her dreamy dreams. It made Belle even more far away... she often wanted only to sleep, joined to her daughter, stories spinning a cocoon around the two of them.

But now the baby was restless. The outside world was intruding, and she was eager to know such things as: _What is a Spret_? She'd heard the word, she'd caught images from Belle. She was more and more aware of _outside_. She felt Killian's hand on Belle's belly, and with a sturdy, little foot, she aimed for it.

Pleased, as content as ever a cat could be, Rumpelstiltskin smiled. His energy was almost that of a Spret; a deep, humming purr, putting off sleepy warmth.

He would not, however, be naming his daughter 'Ghastly'. Well. Maybe a pet name.

He watched Egg move from Killian to sit, splay-legged, atop Belle's belly. Belle had been reshaped, as children reshape their mothers. Her belly offered seating to Egg, as it sometimes afforded a surface for his teacup. Egg put both tiny, furred hands on Belle's belly, and said, "Hi, baby. Hi."

Killian jumped a little, and said, "She heard you, love."

"Ooh, la-la." Egg sing-songed.

　

　

　

　

He'd been to the other side, but he didn't stay. He went with Gizzard, and the two of them worked and wove intricate protection spells on either side of the door... It wouldn't do for Ogres to get curious about the opening to Storybrooke, or for - say - guns to make their way into the Enchanted Forest. He couldn't control all elements of change; a fact he was beginning to reluctantly accept; but there were small considerations within his management.

He'd felt it, as he'd worked with Gizzard on the _other_ side. He'd felt the pull of home... how different, how _alive_ was the magic! It was one and the same as his body, his mind, and yet it was separate. It knew the Dark One with an intimacy like love, and it began to work on him at once, so that the truth of the demon would soon show.

"Is it different to you?" he'd asked Gizzard.

"Aye. _So_ big."

"Can you feel me changing?"

"Aye, Wumpelss... But I _knows_ you, anyway."

Rumpelstiltskin felt sure that, at some point, he would go back. He and Belle and their baby... they would go back and live in the fullness of magic. Belle could teach their daughter of the Deadlands, and he could wield the magic that pleased him for its own sake. He could be lord of the castle he'd built with the help of the land.

But... he _couldn't_ , just yet. Even feeling change begin to work within him as he spell-cast with Gizzard, he'd felt split. Anxious. Home tugged at the Dark One, but Storybrooke had become home, as well. It was where Baelfire was back in his life, and his cottage in the woods had turned into a strange scene of... family. Even the thorny presence of Killian had begun to register as something of a shrug. He could easily kick him out, but he recognized the ties to Baelfire and Belle that were sibling-strong. He found himself thinking the irritated, but resigned thought; _What are you going to do? He's family_. Apparently.

More than anything, he wasn't ready to let go, to challenge the man he was becoming.

Baelfire, poor lad, had become a man who seemed to have two wives, yet he could bed neither. For Henry's sake, he'd made a sort of peace, and then a surprisingly compatible - if odd - friendship with Regina. Yet more family. He managed Regina better than did Emma, somehow convincing her he wasn't a threat. Rumpelstiltskin knew he still yearned to Emma... his boy had long carried a torch. Whatever was to happen there was not going to come easily, however. For the time being, Baelfire seemed happy simply to have Emma and Henry in his life. Rumpelstiltskin understood.

At the moment, the three of them had crossed over. Baelfire wanted to show both mother and son where he'd started out. Rumpelstiltskin had visions of their return, all three smelling of livestock and a broad, blue sky that cupped all of the world. He suspected Henry would require a sword of his own, even though such expenses had not been a part of Bae's boyhood. He also suspected that Baelfire would manage to get Emma cinched up in a bodice at least once... early boyhood predilections did not die easily.

Before they'd journeyed off together, Baelfire came to tell him goodbye. It surprised Rumpelstiltskin to be on the receiving end of a warm, almost crushing hug. Bae had given him a little kiss on the cheek. It left him nearly undone... where there might not be forgiveness, there was yet love. Baelfire had seemed reluctant to leave him, and it was with a thick rasp in his voice that Rumpelstiltskin had said, "Safe journey, son."

They weren't the only ones to travel... Rumpelstiltskin was pleased to see his legacy as a benefactor begin. Regina had feared that Storybrooke would simply empty out, become a ghost town. Like himself, she was reluctant to go back... to put such an obstacle of temptation before the woman she was becoming, largely for Henry's sake.

It didn't empty, though there were pockets of emptiness. Mostly, people came and went. Storybrooke was full of people who lived parallel lives, and didn't want to fully give up either. Their very identities within those lives were confusing... choice was difficult.

He'd thought, perhaps hoped that Killian would be one of those to go. He had a ship, after all. A life of piracy that, while nefarious, was more clean and clear than his aimless lack of true occupation in Storybrooke. But... no. The pirate was bound to Baelfire and Belle, and now even Rumpelstiltskin couldn't deny the spirits that bound him to Belle. Spirits that were still present; who confirmed Belle's magic, all wrapped up the world of the dead; and who seemed to have calmed Killian. Spirits that already spoke to his daughter. He'd come to accept that Belle and Baelfire were the beginnings of family for Killian.

And the fact was that Killian protected Belle. As the baby grew in her belly, Rumpelstiltskin had almost come to take Killian's doggy presence for granted... a sort of contemptible yet reliable right-hand man. So to speak. He was back-up. He guarded both Belle and baby, and would keep them safe in Rumpelstiltskin's absence.

Still... sometimes he had to intervene. He stood behind Belle's chair, the fire warm at his back, his hands on her shoulders. Killian looked up at him, and was met with an expectant brow raise. _That's enough_ , Rumpelstiltskin's expression said. And, as part of a new trend, Killian respected the boundary. He stood, and Egg hopped to go with him.

As they moved on, Egg chattering about camellia buds in the garden, specifically about their deliciousness, Rumpelstiltskin took Killian's place at Belle's feet. Hands to her belly, he looked up at her. The woman who regarded him was both the Belle he'd known and loved, and his _other lover_. As soon as she'd become whole, she'd conceived. That very night.

The baby wriggled and squirmed. She kicked at Rumpelstiltskin's hands. When he stroked over Belle's belly, she self-soothed, sucking her thumb. He felt her movements in the same manner in which he felt Belle's thoughts.

"It won't be long, now." He said, and Belle smiled at him. He'd always known her to travel in her mind, to spin tales and invite spirits, even when - in so many ways - she could be such a practical, earthy, little person. Her wandering spirit had become an even bigger part of her while with child. (Baelfire said she was 'knocked up'. Killian said, 'Bean's got a pea in the pod.')

She was deeply nested within herself. She was in her own world with her baby, and prepared to keep her safe there, nurturing her.

"Have you decided on a name, yet, dearie?"

She shook her head, her hands resting atop his and guiding them over the world of her abdomen. "I don't think I'll know her name until I see her."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded. He kissed her belly, feeling a little sigh that was his daughter. She recognized him, though an ocean lay between them.

"I love you, Belle."

She smiled, pulling him into her dreamworld. "I love you too, Rumpel."

　

　

　

 


	40. Where the Wild Things Are

Ruby _ran_. Gizzard held tight to her ruff, staying warm and secure, his eyes squinted in the wind that her rushing body created. She sped though air; trees whooshed by. The leather scented pads of her paws kicked up earth... Gizzard breathed in scents... scents of humus soil, leaf, moss and cold stone. Tree root and spirits. Wakeful, guardian Mothers.

They came to the door that Belle had opened. It was no secret... it was visible and open wide, the Other Land a bit hazy on its other side, as if shrouded in mist. Scents came from there, too. A foreign magic, lost and godlike and as sweet as honey and mint, drifted through the door on a cold wind.

Ruby tossed her head back and howled, and Gizzard howled with her, making his mouth an O. There were different howls, he now knew. Different sounds to say different things. He'd only ever heard Ruby howl for the joy of it, the expansive feeling in chest and heart... but now her howl asked a question. _Do you miss me? Do you remember me_? Gizzard matched his voice to hers. _Do you miss her_?

On both sides of the door, all went still. The forest of Gizzard's land was always startled to hear the call of a wolf; a predator long disappeared from the land.

But the Other Land _listened_. In doggy comedy, Ruby's head tilted, ears forward... cupped to catch any sounds issuing from the other side of the door. And then it came... a joyful howling. Recognition. The pack answered her.

Gizzard felt her heart swell and race. He smelled her adrenaline and a fiery burst of love, so big and sudden, it hurt. Her mind formed a question; _Should I?_

Gizzard said, "Aye, Wuby. _Go_!"

He held tight as she stood, bigger than any wolf of this world, though perhaps not the other. Opening himself to the magic, Gizzard closed his eyes as she leapt through the door.

　

　

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so attached to these characters... it's really hard to let go. I think I could spend a long time just writing plot-less little moments within the weird family that happened here. Tales of Sprets and convoluted friendships. For all who stuck with the story, even when it veered away from its solid, Rumbelle foundation, thank you!!! I hope it was a good read. 12/25/16 M.C.


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